Rain
by L.A. Mason
Summary: The old battles have been fought, the old goals have been attained. It will take new ones to be make it possible to move forward. Post-anime. Warnings for depression, alcohol, swearing, and the loss of old friends. And maybe for finding new ones.
1. Default Chapter

**_Rain: Part One _**_

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A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason. _

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**

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Author's Note: **On January 18th, the Tuesday night potluck-let's-watch-some-anime group finished the last four fan-subbed episodes of Full Metal Alchemist. After the inevitable shouts of "No!" "What!" and "I want the movie now!" we had some interesting discussions about where the characters were likely to be going. And, being the most fiction-challenged member of the group, I managed to hold out all the way until the 22nd before I succumbed to temptation and began Rain as a drabble during an Instant Messaging session with my partner, Kelly. _

_Now, Kelly is used to me drabbling while Y!M-ing her. And, to be honest, she does it right back. Her reaction to being invited to add to **Rain**, however, was (and I quote) "Nuh, uh, not touching it." _

_And, dammit, she was right._

_**Rain** has grown from a drabble to a one-shot, and from a one-shot to a one-shot in at least **five** parts… And there's a Plot Itch that I'm fighting hard to resist. (Knowing my track record, we'll have to see how that goes…) But for now, here's Part One, absolutely loaded with spoilers for the anime. If you find the spellings of names to occasionally be odd, my apologies - I'm used to the subtitled anime, and to the manga._

_With grateful thanks to Kelly for beta-ing._

_L.A. Mason_

* * *

Rain. Without a single doubt, it was the most unpleasant expression of weather on the face of the earth. And Roy hadn't reached that conclusion solely because the damp interfered with his control of fire. No, it had more to do with the permeating chill, and the dreary sheeting of water over the pane of glass, distorting everything in the darkness beyond. The alchemist swirled the liquid in his glass, and took a swallow of the straight Bourbon. Mockingly, he raised it in salute to the faint reflection of his own face, and downed the last of the alcohol in a gulp. It burned its way down, leaving a momentary warmth behind, but even that faded quickly. 

A gust of wind rattled a bare branch against the wooden siding of the house, breaking the distant gleam of the gas lamps lining the street into weak sparks. He could imagine that they were harbor lights, or lighthouse beacons, but what was the point? He had lost his way too long ago to find safety so easily. The dim outline of his own face twisted into a mocking grin, one dark eye sparkling with bitter humor, while where the other ought to be, there was only a void. How odd, that at night his eye patch should be a hole in his soul, when in daylight, it was a mask... Surely, there was some significance to that insight, but damned if he knew what it was. He was an alchemist, and a soldier... Or, more truthfully, had been a soldier. Now, Roy guessed that all he was, was an unemployed drunk.

Suddenly angry, he turned away from the dark mirror of his window.

It was no one's fault but his own. The clever, driven Flame Alchemist had lost sight of his goals, and had acted rashly. Colonel Mustang - smart, capable Mustang - had committed the grievous sin of choosing haste and immediate results over the long campaign, and had as a result blown every ambition he held out of the water. And damned if he wouldn't make the same choice again. Maas had been right; sometimes, he did think with his heart instead of his head, and that failing would be the death of him.

He had won the battle, and lost the fucking war. But at least Colonel Mustang could still hold his head up high, even if his kingdom had been reduced to a quarter-acre lot, and a neat, two-story pensioner's house. A house that most days he never left any more.

Roy noticed with clinical detachment that he had reached the stage in the evening where his hand was starting to shake when he poured another generous portion into his empty glass. Hmm... It had taken the better part of a bottle to get there, this time. The next swallow of Bourbon was smooth fire, and didn't even elicit a cough.

A hesitant knock from the direction of the front hall finally broke through his bemused contemplation, and surprised, his remaining eye flicked up toward the long case clock hanging on the wall. So late...? How... odd. The evening was edging on toward midnight, well past the time when his few regular visitors tended to turn up. Like Maas, Hawkeye was gone. Not dead, in her case, just discharged for her part in their brief rebellion and retreated to the country where she unexpectedly proved to have a sizable family. Armstrong had gone to some distant outpost, still determined to serve their country. Havoc hadn't survived the northern frontier. And none of the others came around any more; unable to face the silence that greeted their tentative social offers.

He realized that he was still stupidly staring at the hypnotic swing of the clock's pendulum when whoever it was knocked again with a bit more force. He shrugged, and reached for the bottle on the table instead.

The knocking came again, louder this time - and dare he think it? – with an air of urgency about it. In spite of himself, Roy's pulse leapt in answer, setting into a new, quicker rhythm. He smiled bitterly; there was no need. The days when he would be rousted out of bed in the middle of the night by an emergency were long past. Not that he was sleeping, of course. Sleep was proving increasingly hard to capture as the hopelessness of day after day of the same emptiness stretched before him.

His visitor was certainly persistent. Roy shook himself. He might as well answer the damned door. What could it hurt, this one last time? Decision made, he set down the glass of liquor on the edge of a bookcase, ignoring the fact that the dark contents sloshed and a trickle of wet began dripping down from shelf to shelf. He strode a bit unsteadily across the room, and out into the narrow vestibule, intending to yank open the door and tell whoever it was to go away.

He had neglected, once again, to light the gas lamp outside his door, and the feeble illumination from the street lamps at the end of the cottage's front walk was only sufficient to reveal a dark silhouette against the frosted glass of the door. For the barest second, Roy wondered if the government had finally decided that it was time for another of the dwindling number of survivors of the revolt to disappear. It would be almost welcome if they had. But no, there was only a single shape standing on his porch; if it were an official arrest, a squad would have come for him, driving one of the ubiquitous, long black cars. And an assassin would not be pounding on his door. Most likely it was just some poor, drenched, homeless fool.

Although, why someone like that would bother with a house that showed no lights at all when there were others on the quiet lane that blazed with friendly warmth was a puzzle that he didn't care enough to look into.

Growling, he grasped the knob and wrenched the door open, nearly tripping himself in the process. "Just go the Hell a- "

And stopped.

It was an illusion. It had to be. Perhaps the effect of one too many solitary night of drunkenness. The young man glaring up at him didn't – couldn't - have eyes a peculiar shade of liquid gold that Roy had never seen anywhere else. Didn't have a determined jaw, or tightly bunched shoulders under an ill-fitting, soaked black coat.

Didn't falter and turn uncertain when a confused, drunken ex-soldier stumbled backwards, mouth working soundlessly.

It couldn't be Elric. Roy's eyes were playing tricks on him.

"C- Colonel? Sir?" The young man was frozen to the spot, still standing in the dubious shelter of the porch as cold rain gusted into the hall around his legs, bearing a single, sodden leaf.

That voice was deeper than he remembered, Roy reflected, although it still had the softer roundness to the vowels of the Eastern countryside. But he wasn't used to hearing hesitancy where there should be bad temper and insolence, as if the boy who had disappeared without a trace two years earlier was now unsure of his welcome. It crossed Ray's mind that he ought to bid the ghost to enter, or maybe even just say 'hello,' but all that came out was a croaked, "My God, you got taller!"

Well, he reasoned, if he were going to conjure a haunt on such a dismal night, he supposed that his subconscious was entitled to edit a little, and in that light, the added height was entirely reasonable.

Mobile lips thinned angrily and a muscle jumped in the still-beardless jaw, but much to the older man's delight Edward – because, by all that was holy, it _was_ Edward – didn't promptly lose his temper. He hadn't imagined a visit from the elder Elric in months, and it seemed appropriate that the boy had undergone a metamorphosis. Although, a part of Roy mourned it, because if his memories of someone who had been such a constant thorn in his side were fading, then soon he would lose the rest, and there would be nothing left.

And if that happened, then everything would have been in vain.

"I need to talk to you. Sir." the apparition said firmly.

The addition of the courtesy almost as an afterthought brought a humorless grin to the former officer's features. He gestured vaguely to his civilian garb of rumpled white shirt and dark trousers, and muttered, "No need to stand on formality, Full Metal. You know 'm not in the military any more."

Those uncanny golden eyes, like an alchemical reaction themselves, widened in shock. Words came out in a rush, sounding more like the child that Roy remembered, and less like the too solid wraith that loneliness conjured to his porch. "Not in the—Damn it all, Colonel, what the fuck is going on!"

He shook his head vaguely, but didn't bother to argue with the soldierly title; truth be told, it would have been too odd to hear that familiar, argumentative tone and _not_ have it call him 'Colonel.' If he was going to hallucinate, he might as well do it right. Although, it would be nice if his subconscious had spared him the demand for a trip to purgatory, and not asked him what was going on; he didn't particularly want to dwell on everything that had gone wrong in the recent past. It took the numbness of an alcohol-induced stupor to deal with _that_. Still shaking his head, Roy abandoned the ghost of past regrets, and stumbled into the darkened parlor; he'd left his glass in there, somewhere, and there was the remains of the bottle itself on the table.

The front door shut with a bang that must have rattled its glass in the frame, and rapid footsteps pursued the staggering man. Roy waved his glass in a mocking toast, and tossed back the remainder of the alcohol just as the ghost of Full Metal stormed in. Ed slapped the empty glass out of his hand, shattering it against the base of the nearest bookcase. The blow stung the older man's fingers, but he didn't have a chance to protest before two hands, one cold metal and the other warm flesh and bone, locked into the front of his shirt and slammed him into the shelves. The tall bookcase rocked, starting off an avalanche of books that fluttered and rattled around them.

"You bastard!" the young man hissed furiously. "Don't you walk away on me! Where's my brother!"

Bewildered, a black eye looked down into impossibly lambent gold, and Roy whispered, "You're real?" as discarded papers and books continued their slow rain down around them.

Edward released the stupefied man with a final growl and stalked away. He fumbled with a gas jet on the wall, finally bringing it to softly hissing life, chasing the shadows to the room's dusty corners. Corded muscle stood out along the line of his jaw, and he refused to meet the ex-colonel's stunned gaze, turning instead to examine the abandoned clutter on the scarred wooden table that dominated the middle of the room. Armstrong's sister, whose name escaped Roy entirely, had been the one to bring it by, telling the former officer in her sweet voice that her beloved brother had though that the Flame Alchemist would like a table big enough to actually work at. He hadn't sketched a single array, nor done any research sitting at it since it had appeared. The books flung helter-skelter across its wide top weren't a part of any project, but just things that he no longer cared enough about to put away properly. Mixed in was a jumble of dirty dishes and unopened mail, some of it dated more than a year previously, and he didn't care about that, either. Roy could do nothing but stare as the younger alchemist picked up first one thing, and then another, flinging each back down. Low and determined, Edward repeated his question, "Where is my brother? If anything's happened to him, so help me God- "

Understanding dawned: the human transmutation that had finally, successfully brought back the younger brother had been effected at the cost of the elder – or so all of them had believed – but in reality Ed had not traded away his life. He had disappeared, yes, but had done so without witnessing the results of his Trade.

Edward did not know that Alphone had been restored

Hastily, Roy answered with the first thing that came to mind: "He's in Dublith."

"Fine. Then that's where I'm going." Edward spun on his heel, heading for the door and presumably the South. Roy cursed roundly under his breath; that hadn't come out quite the way that he had intended. Where had his suave ability to think on his feet gone to? Presumably, it had drowned at the bottom of a bottle.

Roy shouted, "Full Metal!" and then, as that had no effect, in desperation, "_Edward!_"

Vibrating with impatience, the younger man halted. "Don't think you can stop me; you're no longer my commanding officer." he snarled, glaring over his shoulder. Roy struggled to marshal his wits, to return to the patterns of thought that had rusted with disuse.

"You can't go there. There's bound to be a watch kept on Alphonse, and you're a wanted fugitive." That was logic that that the elder Elric could understand, and sure enough, it diverted his attention. Scowling intently, the blond marched back to where Roy slumped against the teetering bookcase, forcing the older man to struggle erect, to use what psychological advantage that he might have through height to counter the fierceness that lit that no-longer childish face.

"What the fuck did you idiots do while I was gone, anyway?" Frighteningly intelligent, those peculiar yellow eyes focused single-mindedly on the former officer, driving the alcoholic fumes from his brain as they reminded him to not underestimate his opponent. Even as a boy still short of his sixteenth birthday, Edward had often given Roy a run for his money, and one thing that his absence had not done was to blunt his intellect. For the first time in months, the Flame Alchemist regretted the nights spent courting oblivion.

Best to cut Edward off at the pass, then.

"You succeeded in restoring your brother." he said bluntly, and waited for the inevitable open mouthed astonishment. When it came, Roy went for the kill, saying, "However, he remembers nothing of the time that his soul spent attached to a suit of armor. In fact, everything from the age of ten on is gone, as is his knowledge of alchemy. It is his intent to find you, and bring you back, and that is why he's gone to train with your master."

It ought to be marked on the calendar as one of the few, rare occasions that the foul-mouthed little imp was completely at a loss for words. Then the stunned blankness gave way to a rapid succession of emotions, like the landscape seen through the windows of a run-away train: disbelieving joy over his success; morphing to worry and distress over Al's loss of their shared past; then relief that the younger boy was spared the memory of the horrible things that the brothers had seen and done; and finally, a soul-wrenching grief. "A- Al is- " Unexpectedly, the beardless jaw trembled. "No. He can't throw away his life, not to try to bring _me_ back. Not after everything we went through."

Roy said nothing.

Anguished pain became the end point of the inward journey as a shudder ran through the hunched shoulders. Not only fiercely intelligent, Edward was brutally honest as well. Even with himself. In a small voice, he asked, "He doesn't need me?"

"As a brother? Yes. To sacrifice yourself for him? No, not any more." Gently, Roy twisted the knife, and watched as the years fell away, returning to him the boy that he had known so well.

Lips moved silently, mouthing the treacherous words until, blind, Edward turned away, and leaned with stiff arms on the cluttered table. The wiry body hunched, tensed against further shocks, and finally he demanded harshly, "The Fuhrer?"

Of course. A reasonable question, assuming that Full Metal had dealt with the other, missing homunculi on his own. It would be like him to ascertain the whereabouts of the final member of that unholy corps. Ed had parted from Roy and Lieutenant Hawkeye, knowing that they had been on their way to the presidential residence. And he had known that the Colonel had been pursuing a desperate plan of action, having thrown away his careful plans in favor of a single throw of the dice. But Ed had not come back from where ever his own, personal battle against the homunculi had taken him, and did not know the outcome of Roy's gamble.

"Dead." Memory came unbidden, bearing with it an echo of that same, flat statement, and he was back again in the sealed courtroom, listening to the charges leveled against him. They had waited through the long months of convalescence, waited until he could again stand and walk albeit with the assistance of a cane, before convening a Board of Inquiry. At the time, Roy had thought it odd that as many men in dark brown wool, or heather tweed suits sat on the panel, as did men in military blue or black. It wasn't until later that he had learned that during his enforced absence from the world of the living, that Parliament had resumed control of the nation. At the time of his court martial, the only words that had meant anything had been the litany of those whose deaths he bore the responsibility of.

In the end, the men in suits had not been able to bring themselves to order his execution for the crime of mutiny. There had been too much evidence that might have become public, and so, Colonel Mustang had ceased to exist and a newly discharged _Mister_ Mustang had been born in his place.

It was ironic, but in a sense, it could almost be said that the Fuhrer had succeeded in killing Mustang, as well.

Edward paled, and Roy considered that perhaps his initial belief that the boy wasn't really there, that he was just a ghost conjured by his tormented mind to force him to relive every thing that he had failed to accomplish, had been correct.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" the apparition demanded, hands clenching helplessly with the need to fight, to act.

"Also discharged for her part in the matter. She stayed, for a time, to look after me, but once I was sufficiently healed, I sent her back to her family." Oddly enough, as Full Metal's agitation grew, Roy found a numbing cold settling into his chest. The betrayal in his second's face when he had turned his back on her, and ordered her to leave failed to affect him.

"Lieutenant Ross, and Sergeant Broche?" Edward asked hesitantly. Roy was reminded of the fondness that Maria Ross and her subordinate had developed for the Elric brothers, and that hot-headed Edward had tolerated the woman's mixture of orders and exasperated affection almost as well as he had that of Maas Hughes. A pang of regret tried to surface through the numbness, but ruthlessly, Roy drove it back down.

"Both dead. They were shot and killed as they surrendered following the brush with Archer in the Headquarters building."

"Major Armstrong?"

"Because his family's prominence, he retained his rank, but he's been posted to the frontier with little hope of returning to a command in Central."

"Lieutenant Havoc." There was a tinge of desperation to the questioning now, as name after name proved that they were all gone, his old friends, scattered or dead.

"Also dead." Roy hesitated, then added with considerable formality, "I'm sorry, Full Metal. It was by my command that he went north in my place. He didn't survive the revolt."

Rage turned the gold eyes molten, and a wordless snarl drew the younger alchemist's lips back, exposing a flash of white teeth in the dimly lit room. Roy had a bare second's warning to steel himself against the punch that took him low in the kidneys. He made no effort to stop the blow, even though it dropped him to his hands and knees on the carpet, retching weakly as he tried to suck in a real breath.

_I deserved that…_ he thought through the haze of pain and alcohol.

Roy wheezed. Intellectually, he'd known that getting hit by the senior Elric would be like tangling with an Army mule, but the reality of it was more painful than he'd expected.

The fire of Ed's temper burned out quickly, and he dropped down to sit on his heels in front of the kneeling man, muttering apologetically, "Geez… I didn't think you'd actually let me hit you…" Roy chuckled weakly. It wasn't as if there had been anything in his stomach beside liquor and bile. Still grumbling, the blond grasped him by the elbow and easily pulled him to his feet.

"Damn, you're skinny." Full Metal added thoughtfully. Roy shook off his hand, straightening irritably on his own. It wasn't that he had any illusions concerning his own physical prowess – compared to some of the brawnier officers he'd had under his command (even excluding Armstrong, who was in a class of his own), Roy wasn't really all that big. And he would even admit honestly that his lighter build had made it that much more amusing to tease the Full Metal alchemist. But now, reminded as he was of the dense, corded muscle packed onto the boy's small frame, it irked him. Full Metal trained his body hard, expecting results with the same single-minded impatience that he applied to his study of the alchemical sciences.

Roy had let that go, along with everything else when he had accepted defeat.

Good eye closed, he swayed a little before finally turning and stumbling to the battered old couch that stood at right angles to the cold fireplace. He considered, briefly, lighting a blaze, but it would have meant raking out the heaped ashes, and without his gloves, using kindling and matches to get it going. Surprise, surprise… there was still some pride left within him; with Elric watching, he didn't want to be reduced to fumbling like a common drunk. Roy gave a single bark of laughter and collapsed wearily onto the sagging couch.

Expression tight with the effort to hold back his betrayal and hurt, Edward stood indecisively where Roy had left him. "But… If I can't risk going to Dublith, how will I let Al know that I'm back, that he doesn't have to sacrifice himself to find me?"

"Write a letter to your master." the Flame Alchemist replied promptly. "Even if you use an assumed name, and couch it in terms that will pass as unremarkable to anyone who is watching the mail, she should recognize your hand writing. Then let her tell Alphonse that he need not continue down that path any longer."

Slowly, Edward nodded. "Yeah… that would work. And she's strong enough to make him listen, if I pull the rug out from under him. But then what? If I can't go to him, I probably can't go back to Risenpool, either, because that would endanger Winry, and Granny Pinako. What do I do?"

The last was spoken with such quiet despair that Roy felt his own chest tighten in response. What did one do, when all the reasons for existing were gone? Al was restored. The homunculi were defeated. While the country was not yet completely at peace with its neighbors, there was no longer a need for the Full Metal Alchemist to be a dog of the military. Where ever Edward had been for the past two years, it was unlikely that he would return there after struggling so desperately to reach Central.

Like Roy, Edward had nowhere to go.

A vague sympathy that he had thought long dead wriggled in the dark haired alchemist's heart. Once, he had risked everything to protect those he believed to be his responsibility. Full Metal had resented it, fought it, but that hadn't changed the fact that Roy had shouldered the burden without hesitation. He could do so, again. Softly, Roy spoke his answer to the young man's plea. "You stay. Here, in my house. We'll think of something. I promise."

Startled, Edward reared back. The unexpected response unlocked something, breaking the grip of hopelessness. The younger man had always, firmly, clung to his faith in the power of continuing on, of moving forward, and this situation could not be the exception. Like sunlight breaking through clouds, his gold eyes brightened, and a grin split his face. "Yeah. We'll do it! We'll think of a way."

For the first time in a very long time, optimism fired within Roy. A genuine smile rose to his lips in answer to Full Metal's enthusiasm, and he nodded. "Yes, I do believe we will."

_To be continued…_


	2. Part Two

**_Rain: Part Two_**

_A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**Author's Note:** Rain has gotten its first review – thank you, Lyl! And, while I was busy squabbling with Quick Editor here at Beysie and AstroKender also reviewed. I'm delighted to hear from you as well, and hope that Rain doesn't disappoint. (For one thing, I can promise it isn't going to achieve any where near the complexity of my WK fic, Reflections!)_

_This installment is un-beta-ed. Any errors in logic, continuity, or grammar are entirely mine._

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Nearly a month had passed since the beginning of their strange living arrangement, and in some weird way, Ed had to admit that it was working better than he'd thought it would. The Colonel wasn't half as annoying to be around as he'd expected him to be. Although the irritating man kept reminding Ed that he wasn't a colonel in the Army anymore, while at the same time constantly calling the younger man 'Full Metal,' as if _he_ was still a dog of the military.

It was infuriating.

And, in an odd way, comforting, too.

Not that there weren't still some things seriously wrong. It had taken Edward till the third morning to figure out that the disused bedroom that the Colonel had given him was, in fact, Mustang's. And that the reason it was disused was that the older man was in the habit of drinking until he passed out on the old couch in the parlor along towards dawn.

That was disturbing.

And then there was the kitchen. The kitchen fell into a category all of its own.

* * *

Apparently, time in the alternate world ran a bit differently than it did here at home, Ed thought grumpily. It was nearly noon of his first day sleeping in a real bed, even if it was a cramped cot squeezed into a tiny bedroom that doubled as storage, and his internal clock was still insisting that it was too damned early to be up and about. But his appetite had turned ravenous, and he figured he'd better feed his belly before it crawled out and went hunting on its own. Surely, even a bachelor like the Colonel, skinny though he was, would have _something_ edible in his pantry. Ed was hungry enough that even plain bread without butter would be welcome. And coffee. The Colonel practically lived on the stuff, so he was bound to have a pot brewing. The dismal post-war economy on the other side had made coffee a luxury that most of the time Edward couldn't afford.

Scratching sleepily at his frazzled hair, the alchemist shambled through the swinging door into the kitchen, and stopped dead. _Oh, God in Heaven, what was that stench!_ Edward gagged, and backed right out into the hall.

The older alchemist had mentioned in passing the night before as he'd helped locate linens in a closet that he'd fired the housekeeping service that used to come in on a weekly basis. He'd joked that it was because they never sent a pretty girl to clean, despite his begging, but Edward had suspected that it was more because the bastard didn't want any intrusions into his self-imposed exile. He recognized some of the symptoms from his own situation. He didn't like having people around to distract him, either.

But it hadn't dawned on Edward that no cleaning service meant more than just cobwebs in the corners.

Obviously, it did.

Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he stared through the smudged glass of the swinging door. Apparently, judging by the grocer's name on the side of the jumbled boxes visible in the kitchen, Roy had made arrangements to have food dropped off on a regular basis. And, equally apparently, he was in the habit of taking what little he wanted – such as the bottles of alcohol – and leaving the rest to rot. Such heedless waste brought Ed's temper to a simmer, and he had to remind himself that unlike the world where he had lived for two years, Amestior was not subject to the hardships of shortages.

His stomach rumbled hungrily, and the young man came to a snap decision. He wanted to eat; therefore, he would clean.

By three hours later, Edward was queasily thinking that he would never eat again. Even with a damp handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, he felt as if his lungs were permanently polluted. The once-empty trash bins in the alley behind the house were now full, and he had separated out a collection of tinned goods that ought to be safe, but his appetite had vanished.

And it wasn't entirely due to revulsion over the maggots crawling on salt pork that was turning green, or the bags of nearly liquid, rotten potatoes that had gotten the heave-ho, either. Given that there wasn't a clean dish in the place, he suspected that Roy had been living out of cans, himself, which would account for the lack of meat on the man's bones. No, it had more to do with fact that it represented a life that had given up living. What had happened to drive the arrogant son of a bitch to slow suicide like that?

Maybe… he had misjudged the man?

The ground floor of the cottage consisted really of only three main rooms: the parlor with its closed sliding door – presumably where the Colonel was holed up; the filthy kitchen with its attached pantry; and a room that was meant to be a dining room but which was devoid of furniture. A narrow hall with an open staircase to the second floor ran from the front entry, between parlor and dining room, ending at the swinging door to the kitchen. Stripping off his grimy shirt, Ed flopped onto the bare floor of the dining room and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

It had never occurred to him before that the sarcastic pain in the ass who had been his commanding officer during his time as a State Certified Alchemist might not be as strong and confident as he had looked. Oh, Lieutenant Hawkeye had assured Edward more than once that the irritating man cared passionately about his subordinates, and the sanctity of life, but that didn't make him mortal and fallible. It was… disturbing, to say the least, to find that Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, could fall apart.

If Roy could fall apart, then what did that say for the rest of the universe?

Edward had no delusions left concerning the inevitable triumph of good over evil, or any nonsense like that. That bitch Dante, and her homunculi had held the upper hand for over four hundred years, after all. No, if good won out, it was only through hard work and sacrifice. There was no rule of Equivalent Trade that guaranteed it. But somehow, he had always assumed that Mustang would be there, unchanging and annoying, whenever Edward came back.

The matter warranted further study.

And study, Edward did. After the binge cleaning of the kitchen, he'd taken it on himself to take charge of cooking. As he'd told Winry once, after one of her more disastrous attempts to bake, food was just alchemy by another name. Although, to be honest, the girl who had been his best friend though his childhood _had_ finally mastered Gracia Hughes' recipe for apple pie, but Edward privately thought that that was more in the way of a tribute to Maas Hughes than representative of a newly discovered talent for cooking. But at any rate, Ed could make basic, nutritious, edible meals. And, when a plate appeared in front of him, the Colonel would eat, solving problem number one.

Problem two, which Edward referred to privately as 'The Damned Couch,' was less easy to deal with. He might be a lot stronger than the half-starved ex-officer, but he still doubted that he could get the man upstairs to bed if he wasn't capable of walking. And, would it be worth it? He'd taken to slipping into the parlor for books to read while the Colonel was out cold, and even drunk as a skunk, the man still twitched and made tiny, strangled noises at the back of his throat. From personal experience, Edward figured that the nightmares had to be fearsome to get that much of a reaction. Mustang needed sleep as much as he needed to be fed, but how to accomplish it, if drink wasn't sufficient to numb the pain?

Talking – even if it regularly devolved into arguments with Ed jumping to his feet at the battered old table, waving his arms furiously – did seem to help. Lately, he'd been seeing real humor lurking behind the former Army officer's opaque black gaze as the ungrateful man would drawl out some insult guaranteed to yank Edward's chain. The Colonel proved to be surprisingly broad in his interests, more so than the Full Metal Alchemist with his admittedly obsessive focus on first the Philosopher's Stone, and later on the puzzle of how to get home through the Gate when he had no alchemical abilities. Roy had enlisted in the military young, but he'd had a good education before that, coming from a respectable manufacturing family.

Unfortunately, the man had clamed up after letting that tidbit about his past slip, and nothing that Ed had come across in the jumbled mess of the parlor had provided further clues as to what had become of that family. Mentally, the younger blond made a note to ask his master to check around; Roy's slanted eyes and black hair were characteristic of people from the region around Dublith, after all.

But most worrisome of all was that they didn't seem to be making any progress on their joint project. Mustang had helped draft a letter to his master than spoke volumes between the lines – and Edward had to admit that it _was_ a work of art – but after that brief flurry of action, they were stuck on hold until Izumi Cooper could send back a reply.

And, then take today. The Colonel had left the house shortly after dawn on one of his infrequent excursions into Central proper, and Edward had been forced to agree to stay behind. It was damned annoying, having to admit that the ex-officer was probably right; there were lots of people who would still be interested in what they could wring out of him, even two years after the revolt that had toppled the Fuhrer and put the Parliament back in control. Edward paced the empty dining room, too frustrated to take advantage of the peace and quiet to exercise more strenuously. Not that Mustang ever complained when he _was_ around that the vacant room had gotten taken over by his house-guest and was being used to burn off some of the excess energy that being cooped up left him with.

He could always adjust his automail. Two years without Winry had done wonders for forcing Edward to learn how to care for it himself, but there was a lot of work left to be done. Since returning to a world where alchemy actually functioned, he'd cautiously stretched and modified both metal limbs to better fit the height he'd gained.

But, damn it, he didn't really feel like doing that, either.

Okay, he was pathetic; he missed the Colonel's presence, and the man had only been gone for half a day.

A rumble of thunder from outside distracted the alchemist. The rush of potential energy in the charged air crawled across his skin, and buzzed faintly in the neural connectors that married metal to flesh. Still, it was a welcome sound because it meant a change from the slow, cold rain of waning winter to the rebirth inherent in spring. Automail leeched the heat from his body, making frost bite a very real risk, and that in turn made him cranky. Edward snorted, grinning ruefully as his memory supplied the Colonel's snide comment that summer would generate just as much complaining as the younger man ended up feeling like he could fry an egg on his shoulder.

The resounding crash from the vestibule knocked dust from the ceiling and drapes. By the sound of it, the Flame Alchemist was home, and pissed off by either the pervasive wet or by being forced to deal with idiots at the Army's command center. Or both. Edward's grin turned into an evil smirk as he yanked open the dining room door. Mustang in a foul mood was entirely too much fun to bait, and while it had taken a long time to learn his weaknesses, he _did_ have them. It was impossible to keep the glee out of his voice as Edward called "Oy! Colonel! Can you come light a fire for me- "

The front door was standing wide open, having banged into the wall with sufficient force to crack the long pane of frosted glass. There was no sign of the house's owner.

Frowning, Edward closed the door, noting absently that its knob had also put a sizable dent into the plaster wall. It was too small a thing to waste alchemy on, now that he was aware of where the energy required came from, and it would be a nuisance to repair. He opened his mouth, intending to tell Mustang that he could do his own damned fix-it jobs, when a series of thumps and crashes came from the direction of the parlor.

_What the Hell?_

The sliding panel that normally closed off the parlor was standing half-open, yellow light from the gas fixture spilling out into the gloomy hall. This time, the sound that issued from the room beyond was that of shattering glass, and an unhappy premonition seized Edward's mind. Something far worse than rain or military idiocy was the matter. Striding across the hall, he hastily shoved the door open the rest of the way, and promptly jumped back as an empty Bourbon bottle came sailing out to smash against the hallway's far wall.

The Colonel was systematically stripping the books – and everything else - from the shelves, hurling them onto the floor. He hadn't bothered to take off his familiar black wool great coat. Sodden, it hung from his shoulders creating a dark, wet stain on the carpet as it dripped, adding to the mess and ruining the books that had landed splayed open by the man's feet. As Ed watched, speechless, from the open doorway, the ex-officer snatched up a small wooden box that his efforts had uncovered hidden behind the volumes. A sweep of his arm cleared one end of the table, and the box was opened to reveal an Army-issue pistol.

The premonition crystalized in that instant into certainty; Edward didn't know exactly what the man had in mind, but if it involved guns, it couldn't be good. He launched himself into a flying tackle that struck the Colonel just below the waist and sent both of them sprawling across the ruined books.

Pound for pound, Edward was sure that he was the stronger of the two, but Mustang had the advantage of reach and leverage. And, he was _fast_. Roy's elbow clipped the blond's ear, making his head ring, even as he twisted, planting a foot in Ed's stomach and sending him airborne. The smaller man landed badly on the shifting piles of debris, skidding feet-fist into the base of the nearest bookcase. For a second, it seemed as if the wobbling piece of furniture would topple, and Edward scrambled for the shelter of the sturdy table.

The delay had been enough for Roy to scrabble after the lost gun, and to find it.

Caught on his hands and knees, the smaller alchemist froze. Armed, there was no question that the experienced soldier had the upper hand. Mustang might not fight unarmed with the elegance and efficiency that Edward's master employed, but at that range and with a gun in his hands, he was undoubtedly lethal. The question was, what did the bastard intend to do?

The man seemed to have completely forgotten their brief battle, absorbed in staring at the dull black steel in his trembling hands. Water dripped from the hem of his coat, and was ignored, as his lips compressed so tightly that they were nearly as white as his face, and the papers spilled around them.

Grown long and shaggy with neglect, the Colonel's soaked hair trailed like spilled India ink into his surviving eye and down his cheeks, but it failed to conceal the anguished twist of pain. Slowly, he turned the gun about and pressed the muzzle into the soft flesh where chin and throat met.

Edward didn't think. He gave a hysterical screech of protest and launched himself, clapping his palms together as he leapt. His outstretched hands closed onto the pistol's barrel just as the Colonel's index finger tightened on the trigger.

The resulting explosion flung the two of them apart in a hail of tiny metal needles, and threw the smaller alchemist painfully into the edge of the table, rocking the heavy thing onto two legs. Edward had a jumbled impression of Mustang sliding in a tangle down the wall next to the door, pieces of a broken glass shade following him as the lamp blew out.

Except for rustle of settling paper, there was silence.

Shakily, Edward exhaled, and winced. The damned table had left an aching bruise across the small of his back, and it throbbed in counter-point to the burn of the myriad scratches that extended up his flesh and blood arm, across his chest, and up his neck. He was lucky that none of the splinters had struck him in the eye.

It had been a spectacularly stupid way to deal with live ammunition, so he supposed he ought to be grateful that the explosion hadn't been worse. Groaning, the blond staggered upright, books slithering out from under his bare foot. The crunch of glass under the metal one warned him to step carefully as he made his way toward the fireplace to light the pair of gas jets mounted on either side.

As the gray, rainy light gave way to the warm glow of the burning gas, Edward limped cautiously back to the Colonel. There was a smear of blood above him on the yellow wall paper, garishly bright, but the man seemed uninjured beyond that bump on the back of his head, the heavy wool coat having taken the brunt of the needle-fine shrapnel. Which unfortunately made the coat itself as much fun to handle as a hedgehog. Cautiously, Ed eased the wet fabric back from the unconscious man's shoulders, cursing as it pricked at his non-metal fingers. Tugging at it finally convinced the coat to give way, and as it did so, a rolled-up newspaper slipped from the inside pocket. Limp with damp, it flopped open on the floor.

Edward stared in shock at a well-remembered, craggy countenance. The image lacked color, or course, but he knew that the eyes were a vivid shade of blue, and the familiar curling lock of hair that hung down was the same pale blond as the luxuriant moustache.

Armstrong.

And there, immediately beneath, was the headline that explained everything: "Hero of Ishbal Slain Defending Garrison."

Edward sat down hard on the carpet beside his former commander. Commander…? No wonder the Colonel had tried to kiss his gun, or eat it, or whatever the military term for committing suicide was. Mustang had shouldered the guilt for the entire revolt that had ended the Fuhrer's reign, and Ed knew that he blamed himself for involving the Major in it. Never mind that the Major had been just as adamant that another Ishvarian Atrocity should never be allowed to occur, being who and what he was, Roy had taken the blame for everything that had gone wrong. Since he was now powerless to alter the circumstances that could lead to a repeat of Ishbal, it ate away at him like a cancer.

But even if his assumptions were right – and Edward was sure that they were, they gave him the same tight tickle to the stomach feeling as figuring out a complex equation did – what was he to _do_ with the man? Sure, he had managed to destroy a firearm without killing either of them, but it had been a close call. Next time, he might not be so lucky. And, if he didn't find a way to fix what was wrong with the Colonel, there most certainly would be a 'next time.'

Well, first things first. While being unconscious had relieved the tight frown that drew down the Flame Alchemist's brows, it did nothing for the rest of him, which was freezing in a wet civilian suit. It looked as if it was up to Ed to clean the place up, and to take care of the suicidal idiot, both. He gave a long-suffering sigh and began the laborious task of dragging the Colonel over to the decrepit couch.

Once he had the taller man arranged more or less to his liking on the cushions, Edward threw an old blanket over him and slid down to sit on the floor. He ought to clean up the broken glass and the torn books. Hell, he ought to light a fire and drive the dank chill from the room, but discouraged, he stared at the scattered mess. After a long moment, he remarked conversationally, "You know, Colonel, this isn't how I imagined things working out… you know…" He waved a hand vaguely at the house, and at the world beyond. "I guess I always thought that I'd be _there_ when Al got his body back, not stuck in some weird alternate dimension. And you… I thought I'd get to see you parading around looking smug as the new Fuhrer." A grimace crossed his face, aging it. "I sure as Hell never figured I'd be trying to keep you form killing yourself. So… what went wrong? Sir?"

There was no reply, not that he'd really expected one, and Edward continued, "Maybe that's the problem? We're too much alike, with me shouting and you being a prick… Although, I'm trying really hard to keep it under control now. It's funny, but I actually did learn something from my father: people _can_ be more than just what you see on the surface. And I guess you're one of them. I never thought I'd say it, but I admire you. You had a goal to work toward, too, and in a lot of ways, stopping the killing and the wars was a more noble one than mine and Al's. Ours only benefited us, while yours was for the good of everyone…" His voice died away, and Edward scrubbed fiercely at his eyes, surprised to feel his chest get tight and painful. Maybe it didn't need to be said out loud, but he did it anyway. "Well… I suppose it's my turn now. Since Al doesn't need me anymore, and you do, I'm staying."

_Staying…_

Snickering, Edward pushed himself pack onto his feet and set to work picking up the nearest books. Wasn't the Colonel in for a surprise when he woke up, and found that his houseguest had become permanent. It would almost be worth it just to see the man's face, even if the smaller alchemist hadn't already discovered a comfortable feeling of warmth, deep inside, just from the idea of finally having a home again… and someone to come home to.

_

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To be continued_


	3. Rain Part Three

**Rain: Part Three**

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A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**Author's Note:** Thank you, everyone, for the generous praise. Your reviews have been a treat. Warnings this chapter for a different flavor of angst, and once again for no beta-ing. You're getting raw first draft again. I hope it will continue to live up to your expectations._

_LibraryCat_

* * *

Leave it to Full Metal to think up new and interesting ways to torment his former commander. And, Roy reflected, the worst part of it was that it was probably completely unintentional.

The problem was that Edward was the least body-conscious person that the older alchemist had ever met. Roy felt like blowing his brains out for an entirely new reason as a result.

There were a lot of reasons for the military rule against fraternization, and most of them the ex-officer even had to admit that he agreed with. That was why on the rare occasion that he had allowed himself to be really involved with anyone, he had made a point of choosing individuals who were of another unit, and preferably of equal rank to himself, so that there could be no claims of undue influence being exerted. The manner in which he'd dated his way through Central's secretarial pool didn't count, as he considered that to be under the heading of gathering counter-intelligence. And, besides, he'd made damned sure that the relationships had remained casual.

The blond alchemist was proving to be a whole 'nother kettle of fish, as the saying went.

The first part of his problem involved what Roy was coming to refer to as "That Damned Bed," and, more specifically, sleeping in it. At some point during the period immediately following Armstrong's death – a memory that made Roy wince – the stubborn pain in the ass had chivvied Roy upstairs, out of his clothes, and into a warm nest of blankets. And then joined him. Given that the only other choices for places to keep vigil were the hard, straight-backed chair that Hawkeye had once used for that purpose, or the bare floor itself, the bed wasn't such a crazy idea. But, dammit, it was a single, and Edward had continued to come back, night after night. When Roy complained, the boy had groused, " 'M tired… this way I'll wake up if you try anything."

It was on the tip of the former Colonel's tongue to point out that since Edward had already destroyed his service-issue side-arm, and found and neutralized the small revolver that he'd kept as a backup, shooting himself had ceased to be an option. But, and he bit his tongue this time, there was the fact that they were both alchemists, and the young man lying at his back was well-aware that either of them could transmute a weapon if it were necessary. Likewise, it would do no good to explain that attempting suicide had been a spur of the moment thing… not when Roy had to admit to himself that he'd been down that path before, during the subjugation of Ishbal.

So Roy kept his mouth shut, and put up with having a constant bedmate.

But it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore someone who radiated heat like a blast furnace on one side, and was pleasantly cool to the touch on the other… especially given that that person turned out to be a snuggler. If Edward had been awake, no question but it was a heinous plot. But with the boy asleep, what was Roy supposed to think? Curled loosely onto his side, the dark haired alchemist stared at the stars just visible through a crack in the closed curtains, and tried to ignore the living arm looped carelessly around his middle. Ed's cheek was pressed to Roy's back, just between his shoulder blades, and each exhalation was a pleasant warmth through the fabric of his pajamas. Then, finally, the boy flopped over onto his back, releasing his hostage. Roy breathed a quiet sigh of relief that he had again dodged having to explain things to his housemate.

The whole situation represented a problem that he hadn't expected to have to ever deal with. During the four years that Full Metal had been Roy's responsibility - 'subordinate' not being a term that worked particularly well – he had been willful, obstinate, disobedient, argumentative…. as well as frighteningly perceptive and even occasionally wise. But still a child. As commanding officer, Roy had done his best to shield both of the Elrics from the worst aspects of the military, while still giving them a chance to move forward toward their goals. It had not been an easy balancing act, when his instincts insisted that it was the role of adults to guide and protect the children, not to let them go alone into danger. And definitely not to think about them as physically attractive.

Adults did not (if they were normal, moral individuals) harbor _those_ kinds of thoughts about the youngsters entrusted to them. Period. End of statement.

But was Edward still a child? Ignoring the blond alchemist's mutterings about the relative passage of time, and how that might account for some of the differences between the two worlds separated by the Gate, the senior Elric was now past his eighteenth birthday, and ought to be considered as a young adult, not as a kid. But a calendar was no guarantor of adulthood.

Behavior was. And, measured by that ruler, Full Metal had grown in maturity even if he had not in size. The meager inches of physical growth was nothing compared to the importance of learning to think and act judiciously. Isolated from his brother and the regulated structure of the military, Edward had been forced to fend – and think – for himself, and had apparently even reached the point of getting along with his father. From Roy's standpoint, that was the most significant indicator: Hohenheim had gone from being the idolized, god-like father of a young child, to being a demonic bastard who had abandoned his family, to finally being simply a man like any other.

Like his son.

And maybe, Roy thought sourly, he ought to go back to drinking himself into a blind stupor every night, because thoughts like that were bringing him full circle to being aware of how _good_ it felt to have someone warm and alive pressed against him. And, dammit, it wasn't even as if said someone had ever shown any interest.

Sighing, he decided that he might as well get up and begin fixing breakfast. The stars had drowned in a sky gone the electric shade of pre-dawn blue, and if there was one thing that his years in the military had done, it was to cure him of being able to sleep past sunrise. Roy wormed his way out from under the covers and scrambled down the length of the bed and over the foot board. The slight figure that he left behind cocooned in the blankets growled possessively and promptly took the middle of the single bed – while still soundly asleep. As he collected a change of clothing, the older man shook his head in renewed good humor; today, he would put that telephone to good use and arrange for the purchase and delivery of some new furniture. And since it didn't seem likely that he would be getting to have the bed to himself any time soon, a double mattress and frame were at the top of the list.

* * *

Not too surprisingly, the other half of the household came shambling downstairs just as the coffee finished boiling and the aroma hit its peak. Roy automatically poured a cup for the groggy blond and slid it across the cluttered table without comment. A plate loaded with scrambled eggs, a thick slab of toast, and a hash of left-over ham and potatoes from the night before followed. Edward grunted something that might have been a thanks and went to work while the former officer leaned back to watch with an amused smirk.

One side-effect of having Full Metal show up on his doorstep in a rain storm had been being forced to share his clothing with the smaller man. Today was no exception. Edward wore yet another of Roy's too-big white cotton shirts, sleeves rolled up to reveal one muscular forearm, and an equally strong metal one. He'd given up and transmuted a pair of black trousers to a better fit, but balked at doing the same with the rest of his outfit… something confusing to do with the source of the power to drive an alchemical reaction, and how it was inappropriate to use it for trivial purposes now that he knew. Roy had intended to back Full Metal into a verbal corner and demand an explanation about that, but the latent pain in the honey eyes had prevented the inquisition.

But it wouldn't hold Roy back forever.

He slouched comfortably in his own chair, and studied the younger man. Completely oblivious to the intent examination, Edward methodically shoveled food into his mouth with one hand while the other turned the pages of a book that lay open in front of him. It was rather amusing that it had only taken a half cup of scalding coffee to wake him up enough for the need to read to kick in, but a side advantage was that it let Roy stare with impunity.

Edward had scrapped his spun-gold hair into a messy pony tail, blissfully ignorant of the many women in the world who would kill to have such lovely hair. Roy snickered. It was so typical of the driven alchemist that he didn't even notice the effect he had on the people around him. The officers that had made up Roy's command staff had even had a pool going as to what the first person to successfully seduce the young blond would be like. Most of the bettors had been in agreement that whoever it was would need a two-by-four to get Edward Elric's attention first, before any progress could be made. The memory hardened the ex-Colonel's remaining black eye as the familiar rush of mingled guilt and sorrow gave way to a new emotion: to cold rage. Those for whom the outcome of the wager would no longer matter did not deserve to be forgotten, nor to have their service to Amestior relegated to obscurity.

Edward picked that exact moment to glance up from his reading. Taken aback by the murderous expression on the Flame Alchemist's face, he blinked uneasily. "Um… Colonel? Is something wrong? Did I do something?"

The wariness in the younger man's tone startled Roy out of his black introspection, back into the present, and he favored Edward with an evil grin. Teasingly, he asked, "You mean to tell me that you don't know…?"

The worry transmuted into an instant flash of temper as Edward bridled. "Damned jerk! Would I be asking if I had any idea what went on in that twisted brain of yours?"

Gauntlet thrown, challenge accepted, Roy opened his mouth to escalate the confrontation, when the clang of the mail flap in the front door threw him off his verbal stride. There was seldom much of anything delivered to the house; he could go for days without the postman even mounting the steps of the front porch. The skittering slap of letters hitting the floor and promptly scattering, followed by a heavy, retreating tread across the plank floor of the porch, had the dark haired alchemist out of his seat in an instant. He hurried into the hall, just on the off chance that today was the day that their letter to Edward's master bore fruit. Behind him, Full Metal shouted "Oy! I wasn't done yet!" but Roy ignored him, excitement sending a shiver up his spine as he dropped to one knee to pick up the mail.

There were only four envelopes, after all. Impatiently, he dismissed the statement from his grocer as irrelevant, although he supposed he ought to consider increasing the quantity a hair on a few things; who knew that someone as small as Elric could eat so much? A note on cream parchment from an old soldiers' home soliciting donations joined the grocer's bill. Likewise, the invitation to speak to the Right Honorable Daughters of the 87th Regiment could go into the fireplace as tinder. He had no intention of praising the glories of war in front of a bunch of over-bred cretins. If he told them what he really thought, not a one of them would understand, anyway.

That left one, addressed in a looping scrawl that he didn't recognize.

Tucking the rejects absently under his arm, Roy rose to his feet. The return address scribbled across the envelope's flap was illegible, but the postmark seemed to be a small town in the south… near Dublith. Anticipation sped up his heartbeat, sending a tingling surge through his veins. He strode quickly as he returned to the parlor and snatched up the butter knife from his plate, intent on slitting open his prize. The unwanted letters fluttered unheeded to the floor.

At that small sound they made hitting the carpet, Edward mumbled an interrogative around a mouthful of eggs. Roy held up one hand, effectively forestalling any questions as he quickly skimmed the beginning of the letter. Then, chuckling, he began to read aloud: " 'Dear Cousin, we were overjoyed to receive your recent letter. My foster son sends his greetings to you and to his favorite relative...' "

"Give me that!" shouted Edward, lunging across the table to snatch the sheet from Roy's fingers. He scanned the text rapidly, muttering, "This is my master's handwriting… 'He excels in his studies, but more importantly, his generous and kind nature make him loved by one and all.' Al! She's talking about Al!" the younger man whooped, then restrained himself enough to continue reading. " 'He's full of impatience to be reunited with his true family, but understands that circumstances sometimes do not allow it as quickly as we would like. For now, I've persuaded him to turn his studies into new avenues in hopes of keeping him occupied safely. On other news, dear cousin, we've recently found two young men who oversee our every need. It's possible that you might know them, as they come from an agency that you once employed, yourself. The elder of them is named Batteau, and sends his greetings in case you remember him.' " The smaller alchemist's brilliant eyes flicked up, full of confusion. "Oy, Colonel… What does she mean by that last bit?"

A broad, genuine smile stretched Roy's face, feeling awkward and unfamiliar, but wonderful none the less. He reached for the china coffee pot sitting between them, and casually poured a cup for himself as he drawled, "A certain intelligence officer who used to be a part of my staff goes by that name…?" He glanced up in time to see Edward's growing annoyance transmuted into open delight.

"Falman! Master's got Falman." He leapt out of his chair and began pacing in rapid strides between the wall of book cases and the windows, absently stepping over a pile of recent acquisitions that had yet to find a home on the over-flowing shelves. Abruptly, he stopped and whirled back to the table, exclaiming, "Two – she said 'two.' So, who's the other one?"

"I have no idea." Roy replied calmly, hiding a growing smirk of his own behind the rim of his cup. "You grabbed the letter before I could read that far."

The impatient blond replied with a growled curse, and turned his attention back to the sheet clutched in his hand. " '… the other is a skinny little serpent.' Okay, that doesn't ring any bells for me."

Cup met saucer with sufficient force to break the former in two. Roy stared at his shaking hand for a moment, then deliberately uncurled his fingers from the coffee cup's handle. His voice was low, and full of anger as he carefully enunciated each word, "Your master is telling us that two people from the military have been assigned to keep tabs on them. One, with whom she has been in contact, is Warrant Officer Falman, who is apparently still sympathetic to us. That's our good fortune. The other, however, is no friend. Archer had an aide that Falman was fond of referring to as 'that skinny little snake in the grass.' I would conclude that he's the second one."

"So…" Edward dropped into his seat, slouching down till the back of his skull bumped on the carved wood. He addressed the ceiling overhead. "They assigned Falman because he knows Al, and would have some idea how to interpret what he sees. But because they don't trust the Warrant Officer, they assigned another watchdog to keep an eye on him."

"Yes." Cold fury settled into the pit of his stomach.

A look of concentration settled onto Ed's features, causing his amber eyes to go vague and unfocused. Roy found his anger shifting to amused fondness at the well-remembered fugue state; once he got like that, the younger man could chew on a problem for hours while oblivious to everything that went on around him. A long time ago, when the boys had been relatively new to Central, Al had gone so far as to smuggle a cat into their room in the dorms. Then he'd given in to the temptation to take the creature out of his chest and play with it, and his elder brother had _still_ been none the wiser. Lieutenant Ross had been frankly incredulous, but Roy had understood very well how easy it was to lose oneself in a puzzle.

A slow grin stole across Ed's face, and he murmured, "Al's doing okay, isn't he?"

"Yes." Warmth replaced the chill in Roy's stomach. That was an affirmative that he was happy to be able to give. It was surprising that seeing his unexpected houseguest _happy_ could make him feel that way. But he was getting used to thinking in terms of 'us,' rather than just 'me,' and it was a nice change, all around.

Metal and flesh fingers carefully folded the letter, smoothing the creases lovingly, then suspiciously bright eyes flicked up, briefly meeting Roy's, only to look away again. "Do you… Do you think that I'll be able to see him soon?"

"Maybe. But don't get your hopes up too high. It might take some time. It should be enough that Al is well, and that he's in good hands." Honesty hurt, but he'd learned that with the senior of the Elric brothers, it was definitely a good policy. It had taken Edward a long time to really forgive and forget that it had been Colonel Mustang's decision to withhold information concerning Maas Hughes' death, and that wasn't a reaction that Roy was eager to see demonstrated again any time soon. The kids had just seemed so damned young, that shielding them was a given, even though it quickly proved to be a bad decision on his part.

Those boys hadn't wanted him to protect them.

Carefully nonchalant, he said, "I'm going to go out to do a bit of shopping today. If you can have a reply ready, I'll mail it on my way."

Edward opened his mouth, thought better of it, and clenched it shut. It was obvious that eagerness to get a letter off into the mail was warring with a stubborn reluctance to let his old commander out of his sight. If he gave in, it would be the first time since coming home with the news of Armstrong's death that Roy hadn't been where the fiercely protective youth could check up on him. But there was no way that Ed could go along, _and_ keep his presence in Central a secret. It was a minor miracle that they had been lucky this long, and it would be a waste to throw that advantage away, not without getting something in return. 'Equivalent trade,' the Flame Alchemist thought, and had to school his face to reflect only mild interest combined with a surety that nothing bad could possibly happen.

"Fine. Whatever." Scowling, Edward threw his hands in the air and spun on his heel so that he didn't have to see defeat coming. But, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Just… don't do anything stupid. Okay?"

The raw worry made Roy flinch, and without even thinking about what he was doing, or why, he rose and circled the table to stand behind the young man's rigid back. His hand hovered indecisively over Edward's shoulder, before falling, empty, to hang at his side. It wasn't the sort of situation that being a commander in the military could prepare a person for. And so it was the steel alchemist who shocked Roy speechless by whirling, and wrapping his arms around the older man's middle. The cool hardness of metal through his cotton shirt raised goose pimples up the backs of Roy's thighs. Ed's voice was muffled against his front, buried in the soft white fabric of a dress shirt that hadn't seen starch or an iron in months: "If you get hurt, I'll kick your ass from here to the Eastern frontier, myself. And don't think I won't, _Colonel_."

Colonel. Trust and loyalty, old insults and defiance. A slow smile wormed its way out of hiding and plastered itself crookedly across Roy's face. He said gravely, "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Full Metal."

The shorter man jerked back, gold hawk's eyes full of suspicion clashing with Roy's dark, bland gaze. Then it dawned on him that he was hugging the stuffing out of the very same person who had been his nemesis throughout his career as a certified State Alchemist. Flushing, the boy was abruptly several feet away, his back to the older man like an offended cat. Roy clamped down on the temptation to see if he could get an even better rise out of the flustered teen by leaning down and intimately murmuring 'Boo!' in his ear; it wouldn't be right, no matter how much fun it might be.

And just _where_ had that idea sprung from?

The moment passed while Roy mulled over whether or not living in isolation had truly driven him around the bend: Edward was pulling books, seemingly at random, from the packed shelves, and if his voice was a little higher than usual, he seemed determined to ignore it. "I was thinking that the perfect way to let Al know where I was would be through the euphemisms used in alchemy. Since I can't use my personal code – With Al having lost his memories, he doesn't know it any more – I was thinking about these. Master Izumi probably started Al off with works by these authors." A stack of volumes hit the table with a thump.

Returning to his seat and his now-cold breakfast, the former officer had to nod. There was sound logic behind Elric's conclusions. Alchemists had couched their discoveries in obscure terminology and metaphor for centuries, dating back to the days of the witch burnings. And each one used a subtly different language of his or her own devising. Knowing which books Al would most likely be studying from his own days with Izumi Cooper, Edward could readily communicate, but a non-alchemist would find it difficult to spot the secondary meanings in any letters exchanged by the supposed 'cousins.'

The blond shoved his abandoned breakfast reading to the side, together with a litter of dirty plates and cups, and pulled a pad of paper over in front of him. Swift, neat symbols and words began to fill the page as he flipped through his first book. The long case clock on the wall ticked loudly in counter point to the _scritch_ of pen on paper as Roy remembered that watching someone else hot on the trail of a discovery was nowhere near as much fun as doing it himself. He picked a slice of cold toast apart into smaller and smaller crumbs, but Edward was already oblivious to his presence.

"I think I'll go take a shower and get changed. Do you think you'll have that ready in an hour?" he asked. Edward grunted. The first book was closed, and dropped onto the floor beside his chair, and a replacement selected from the stack in front of him. Roy coughed and hid a smile behind his hand. In precisely the same tone, he said, "Would you like to join me? I could wash your back."

"Uh, huh…" Distracted, Elric fumbled for a scrap of paper to mark his place, and reached for another volume, propping it absently against the nearly empty china coffee pot to serve as a comparison to his notes. He mumbled, "….sounds good… Hand me that dictionary, would you?"

The coffee pot toppled, spilling a stream of cold, near-black liquid across the scarred wood of the table when Roy burst into laughter.

* * *

The former officer was no longer snickering when he quietly let the front door close behind him and stood with sagging shoulders in the silent entry way. Oh, mailing Full Metal's letter to his brother had gone well enough. There was a busy branch of the post office along Roy's preferred route to the veteran's facilities, and the ringer had been dropped down the chute tucked between a couple of legitimate envelopes. If the watchers dogging the forcibly retired man were paranoid enough to wade through the mountains of mail, all that they should see would be a payment to his grocer's, and an order to the outfitter's for four new, white dress shirts, all in Roy's usual size. Certainly nothing to arouse suspicion. No, things hadn't gone awry until he'd reach military headquarters.

Roy didn't think of himself as a fool. Or at least not when it came to practicing day-to-day discretion. There had been no point in attempting to reach the offices of the serving alchemists, such as he had once been, so, outwardly docile, he'd gone directly to Veterans' Affairs and taken care of some of his long-neglected paperwork. Only afterwards had the man clad in mundane civilian garb turned his feet toward the canteen, just like any other noob picking up a quick bite of lunch. Nothing suspicious, as even certified alchemists who had turned in their watches were allowed walk through those doors. No, the reason for the sour, acid burn at the back of his throat hadn't come until he'd seen a familiar face at the crowded tables.

Under the guise of checking the big mess hall for a vacant seat, Roy had casually scanned the sea of blue uniforms, realizing with a sinking feeling just how few and far between were the officers that he could honestly say that he knew as more than just a name. A two years' absence, coming on the heels of the failed coup, had wiped from the ranks pretty nearly everyone that he had once counted on as an ally. He'd been on the verge of giving up when a glum face topped with rumpled hair as black as his own caught his eye: Sergeant Major Fury.

The communications officer was seated alone at one end of a long table, leaning his cheek into one hand as he pushed the remains of his stew around on his plate. He'd failed to so much as glance up when Roy stopped beside him, but the sound of his old commander's voice asking politely "Is this seat taken?" jerked him out of his slumped pose. Warm brown eyes, always wide and earnest behind the clunky glasses became even wider, before a cold barrier of hurt and betrayal slammed down over them. Roy hadn't been able to so much as open his mouth, let alone say anything, before the smaller man had rocketed out of his seat and scurried away down the crowded aisle, leaving his abandoned lunch behind.

And, worst of all, Roy hadn't dared to follow him.

Obviously, something had happened to move Roy from the category of 'beloved superior' to that of 'shoot down on sight.'

And, to be completely honest, he could make a few guesses as to what it had been.

Too gentle for service on the front lines, Cain Fury had surprised the then much younger Flame Alchemist by volunteering for his command staff. At the time, Major Mustang had had some serious doubts, but not only had the diminutive comm expert proven to be first rate in his field, he had more than once displayed real courage by screwing up his nerve and doing what had to be done, even when it was readily apparent that he'd rather not have. He'd proven to be loyal beyond any shadow of doubt, choosing to follow the path Roy blazed without hesitation, right down to its end in the bloody trenches of the northern outpost. It had been hard watching Havoc die in front of those anguished brown eyes, and harder still to watch from the ranks during the mustering out ceremony when his Colonel had publicly turned in both his insignia of rank, and his silver pocket watch. Said former commanding officer felt a twinge of very real guilt that he had never once in the intervening time tried to get in contact with the younger man, not tried to say "I'm sorry."

It was no wonder that Fury wanted nothing to do with him, now.

Roy tucked his coat neatly into the closet beneath the front stairs, and frowned at the mirror hanging there. It was decidedly odd to see his own, familiar features staring back, and to discover that there was hardly a trace of the events that had led him to the isolation of a government-issue cottage in a quiet neighborhood. The shadows beneath the inscrutable, slanted black eye and the matching black patch were a little deeper, and the hollowing of his cheeks and jaw a hair more pronounced, but the lines of pain that had once bracketed his mouth had faded in the two months since Edward had come. Since Roy had stopped just marking time, and started living again.

But, for once, thinking of the foul-tempered little alchemist failed to summon him, and inexplicable worry seized Roy. For the first time in a very long time indeed, he longed for one of his gloves: Full Metal was too smart now to have voluntarily left his sanctuary, which could only mean that something else had gone wrong.

The cane that Hawkeye had gifted him with, back when she had still been sure that Roy's self-exile wouldn't last, was propped in the corner of the cramped closet, and seeing it turned the man's normally bland expression feral. Riza Hawkeye, practical as always, had chosen a cane less appropriate for a healing invalid and more for the person her former master had been. There was a thin sword of top-grade steel concealed within.

He was more used to the heft of a military saber, but while the delicate blade might seem less lethal, it really wasn't. Roy had no qualms that if it came to that, that he could take down just about any opponent that he might go up against. Considering that his old second in command had had an array etched into the steel, and mounted a flint in its hilt, it would take someone on the level of the Fuhrer to come close to defeating the Flame Alchemist in a duel like that. And the Fuhrer was already dead.

It was a bit of a let-down to cautiously slide open the door to his parlor, only to find a perfectly safe Edward asleep with his head pillowed on a mess of crumpled notes.

The rumble of the heavy door on its track as Roy shoved it the rest of the way open made his houseguest blink and rub at bleary eyes. It amused the older man that even three-quarters zoned, Ed could remember to use his off hand, rather than his metal right. Snorting, Roy sheathed the sword.

"What's so funny, you damned pervert?" the younger man demanded grumpily.

"Oooh, somebody wakes up cranky." Roy dropped the cane onto the table and headed for the kitchen. The chair scraped faintly on the worn carpet as Edward got up to follow him, still muttering complaints.

"For a guy with your reputation, you'd think you'd have some decent furniture… But noooo, you've got the worst bachelor's bed I've ever seen. What did you do, stay over at your girlfriends' places all the time?" His footsteps became hollow, and harder as he crossed from rug to bare wood, catching up to Roy just as he was about to add more water to the used coffee grounds from breakfast. Edward snatched the enameled pot from his hands, snarling, "Give me that! No wonder your coffee always tastes like crap!"

Eyebrows shooting for his hairline, the former officer surrendered and got out of his companion's way. Interfering when Edward was stomping around in a fit of temper, even without his heavy boots, was asking for bruised toes. He said mildly, "I had a staff to take care of things like that. And besides, it isn't as if you're being forced to drink it."

Edward favored him with a golden glare, up through surprisingly long lashes. But there was nothing coy about the look; it was simply a non-verbal continuation of their spat, and that by itself told the older man volumes: the blond had been worried about letting him go out alone, and was going to make Roy pay for the discomforting feeling. Testily, Full Metal added, "Well? Don't just stand there. Go get another can of beans from the pantry." as he turned to dump the old grounds into the trash.

"Yes, Sir." Roy murmured. But he went, smothering a tiny grin.

The small domestic noises coming from his kitchen were soothing, and almost enough to make him forget the fiasco of seeing the comm specialist at the officer's mess. But Ed deserved to know at least the bare bones of the encounter, so he casually called out, "I saw Sergeant Major Fury at Central Headquarters a little while ago." The rattle of dishes in the sink paused as the younger alchemist considered the implications of that comment.

"So…" he offered cautiously, "I guess that means that he's off of the big shots' shit list?"

"Possibly." admitted Roy. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead, adding, "He wasn't too happy to see me, however."

The light spilling into the pantry from the kitchen was blocked and the officer glanced over his shoulder to find Elric leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. The level gaze was challenging as he said bluntly, "Why not?"

Roy braced both hands on the narrow counter and stared down at his whitened knuckles. It took all his will-power to whisper, "I fucked up. I left him hanging out there, instead of backing him up when the shit hit the fan."

"Huh." The unaccustomed swearing coming from Roy didn't particularly throw him. Instead, the agile mind behind the uncanny eyes turned the problem around, examining it from all angles. Then Edward pushed off from the wall and headed back into the kitchen proper, intent on finishing his cleaning. Off-handedly, he remarked, "You didn't do anything wrong. It doesn't look to me like there was a whole hell of a lot you _could_ do, once the Fuhrer was out of the picture and those politicians got into it, so quit beating yourself up over it. If Fury can't see that, that's his loss, not yours."

Under his breath, Roy replied, "Out of the mouth of babes…" and summoned a wry smirk. Having Full Metal living in the house was definitely proving to be rough on his self-esteem. On the one hand, the young man obviously believed that his former superior had done the best he could under difficult circumstances, but on the other, Edward didn't seem to think that it was enough out of the ordinary to be deserving of praise. It was humbling - and enlightening - all at the same time. Still, he couldn't resist poking at Edward and his linear way of thinking, and whined, "Don't I deserve some thanks for defeating the homunculus threat? At great personal risk, I might add?" The blond made a rude noise and threw a dish-towel in the Hero of the Rebellion's face.

"Yeah, yeah. You were great. Now, get to work on those dishes. You think they're going to put themselves away?"

Neither of them said anything more until the last cup was dried and put away, and a fresh pot of coffee steamed gently on the stove. Under the metal alchemist's critical eye, the brew came out perfect, and a look of bliss crossed the younger man's face as he inhaled deeply. "Now that," he remarked, "Is the way it should smell." Looking pleased with himself, he poured the heavenly brown liquid into its china server and headed back for the parlor and his research. Shaking his head, Roy had no choice but to follow if there was to be any hope of getting a cup if it for himself.

Edward waited until the dark haired alchemist had settled into his usual spot and taken a restorative swallow of scalding coffee before announcing, "I've been thinking."

"And this is unusual, how?" Roy slid the cup and saucer away and leaned back in his chair, to all intents relaxed. But Edward taking the time to draw attention to the fact that he had been thinking something through was out of the ordinary enough to bring the older man's internal defenses to full alert status. He'd gotten caught flat-footed more times than he liked to admit underestimating his reluctant subordinate, and while Ed officially no longer answered to anyone, only an idiot would fail to take precautions when the leopard bared its fangs.

Sure enough, feline-gold eyes speared Mustang with the kind of look normally reserved for rabbits that were too stupid to catch on to their imminent staring roll as dinner's main course. Impatiently, Elric snapped, "Politics. We're going into politics. If the military isn't the way to go, anymore, we'll find another way."

"Politics?" The dark haired man responded with a laugh that was less bitter than he had expected to hear from himself. "Before all that- " He waved a hand vaguely, inclusively, in the direction of the past. "Maybe. Now? Not a chance. One person, alone, hasn't got a chance."

It finally got a rise out of the younger alchemist, who glared. "There is no 'you,' and no 'me' anymore. It's 'we.' And 'we' are a team that can do anything. Got that?"

Startled, Roy pulled up short and closed his mouth. Oddly enough, he did. A slow, genuine smile lit his countenance as he finally repeated his new partner's words. "Yeah. _We._ I get it."

_

* * *

To be continued _


	4. Part Four

**_Rain: Part Four _**_

* * *

A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_This installment is once again un-beta-ed. Any errors in logic, continuity, or grammar are entirely mine._

* * *

With Mustang upstairs busy depleting the house's hot-water supply, Edward had the luxury of throwing himself down full length on the sagging parlor couch and staring moodily at the flickering fire on the hearth. He really hadn't intended to spring his plan on the older man like that, but the ex-officer had seemed so down, that he hadn't been able to resist. Frowning, he turned that last thought around in his brain: yes, ever since he'd turned up on the man's doorstep, the Flame Alchemist had been fumbling and unsure of himself…. depressed, even. Especially after Armstrong's death. What had happened to the egotistical bastard that had made Ed and Al's lives hell on more than one occasion?

Wait… Had that person ever even existed?

Absently, Ed laced his dissimilar fingers together to make a rest for the back of his head, hardly noticing the contrast in textures any more. He had a tendency to think of his own life as having epochs, with the first great divide being Before Human Transmutation, and After. Then came Through the Gate, and most recently, Returning from the Gate. Was the Colonel's life also broken into segments in the same fashion? As an alchemist, Edward prided himself on having excellent observational skills, but there was a world of difference between a laboratory reaction, and what went on inside of people. He'd done pretty well on the missions he'd been given during his stint as the military's errand boy, but he harbored no delusions that that qualified him as an expert.

And, taking the Colonel again as an example, there was definitely something… broken… inside the man, and Edward was at a loss as to what it might be, and how to fix it. A smashed radio, sure, he could turn it back into one that was brand new. And the same went for everything from vases, to pick-axes, to entire buildings. But the one thing that he _had_ learned was that humans weren't like things, and that went for their minds, as well as for their souls.

After that close call with the gun – an event that even at a month's remove had the power to make Edward's insides squirm uneasily – he'd made a concerted effort to notice _more_ of what went on behind Mustang's irritating collection of masks. And what he saw, disturbed him.

There was no way that he would own up to it, but after the first couple of nights, it wasn't the fear of a repeat suicide attempt that made the younger man put up with the back-breakingly uncomfortable single bed. It was the nightmares. Neither he, nor the Colonel, mentioned them in the light of day, but nearly every night Ed would awaken to find his bedmate twitching and whimpering in the throes of some dream or other. Mustang would hold himself rigidly still, as if afraid to attract some demonic regard, and he hardly ever spoke during the episodes. But what little he did allow to escape was all about fire, and smoke, and blood… Always blood.

Career-wise, Ed knew that his old commander had served as a human weapon during the first Ishvarian conflict. It had earned him more than one field promotion, while also destroying his killing instinct; the way the man had choked during his duel with Edward was proof of that. Not that Mustang was a coward. Far from it. Against a legitimate foe, the Colonel was lethal. It was just that he lacked the ability to ever again blindly follow orders against the innocent. The details of precisely what had happened in Ishvar were not among the rumors that his younger subordinate had been able to tease out with any degree of certainty.

But one thing he was sure of: Mustang – _Roy_ – had at least considered the Forbidden, because he had recognized the evidence of human transmutation for what it was. Roy _knew_.

And that meant that whatever Hell lay in his past had to be very, very bad indeed.

The obvious solution was to keep the man too busy to brood about that past. Edward recognized a kindred spirit in the sense that both of them were kind of short on goals just at the moment, and that had led him to consider the ambitions that had driven Mustang in the past. Putting a stop to the senseless killings struck the steel alchemist as worthy, the more so now that he was aware of the source of the energy that fuelled transmutations. The question was, just what it would take to make a difference, to combat the wars that continued to plague Amestior? The rule of the military had been broken, and Ed wasn't stupid enough to want to return to _that_, thank you very much. If you had soldiers, that meant that you had battles for soldiers to fight in, and he'd more than had his fill of serving the military even as a largely free-lance operative, let alone as their dog.

No, these days, power lay with the men in the suits, with the politicians. If he and his Colonel were going to accomplish anything of worth, it would mean pulling off a different kind of coup.

_Hn, 'his Colonel….' _Right. If the man had heard that, he'd have been giving Ed his walking papers and showing him the door so fast that it would make the blond's head swim. Snickering quietly, his eyes drifted shut of their own volition.

* * *

Those proprietary thoughts came back to bite him in the ass with a vengeance two days later.

Okay, first off, if Ed had really been sincere about his vow to do a better job of figuring out people, he might actually have observed that Mustang was up to no good. In self defense, though, the younger man sourly claimed that the Colonel was a pro, and it would be a bit much to expect anyone – even somebody with Ed's background and qualifications – to catch an expert who didn't want to get caught. But it had still been a shock when Roy had responded to the sounds of numerous heavy boots as his front porch with a casual, "Stay put. It's just a delivery man with a couple things I ordered," as he went out and closed the parlor door behind him. Flummoxed, Ed hadn't gotten so much as a word out before it was too late.

'_Couple of things,' my ass! _he growled inwardly. There were at least four sets of feet tromping around in the narrow hall and up the stairs to the second floor. It wasn't difficult, after more than two months, to pick out the Colonel's less ponderous tread from among them; even in peace time, the man was light on his feet. Those other feet though, had to belong to the big van pulled up out front at the end of the cottage's walk. The gap that Ed dared to open between the drapes wasn't big enough to let him make out the company's name, and that only increased his determination to make the army officer _pay_ for whatever the Hell it was that he was up to.

At last, after what seemed like forever, the strange feet marched out, and the truck pulled away from the curb with a snort and the rumble of a big diesel engine. Ed was waiting, quivering with annoyance, just inside the big pocket door when Roy slid it open, and he shoved past the taller man with an annoyed scowl. Mustang, the bastard, just snickered, and Ed's "All right, asshole, what did you do?" came out with more venom than he'd intended.

Smirking, the Colonel bowed, and extended one hand, pointing the way to the stairs. "After you." Ed glared, but stomped up the steps anyway.

There were only two rooms, plus the bath, on the second floor, thanks to the slope of the house's roof. With the hall off-centered, the marginally larger had become Roy's bedroom, and the smaller served as an all-purpose box room, only half-filled with the limited clutter of a military life where frequent reassignments had discouraged the acquisition of too much stuff. The door to the larger bedroom stood ajar, and for the first time that Edward could remember, a bar of watery sunlight spilled out through the gap into the corridor. Shooting a suspicious glance at the now openly grinning officer, the blond alchemist pushed the door the rest of the way open, and stopped dead in his tracks, jaw dropping soundlessly. Behind him, Mustang coughed in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

A bed… A freaking _huge_ bed, with a tastefully carved headboard of cherry wood, and it dominated the room. Ed choked, sputtering something incoherent that sparked a full-out guffaw from the man leaning against the corridor wall. But when the smaller alchemist whirled, intending to shout 'What the Hell !' the words died in his throat.

There was an uncomfortable uncertainty to the man's black stare, even though his mouth was curled up in a generous grin at Ed's expense, and the reply was tentative. "I couldn't help noticing that things were a bit cramped. I thought it might be more comfortable if we got a bigger bed. If you'd rather not, I had the delivery men set up the old one in the smaller bedroom, across the hall…"

'_If we got a bigger bed…' Oh, crap… He said 'we.'_ Ed coughed. "Er… no, I guess that won't be necessary. The other room, I mean. Ah, we…" Helplessly, he waved both hands at new bed. Now that the shock was wearing off a bit, he noticed that there was not one, but two matching dressers shoved haphazardly against the wall, and a number of smaller boxes and parcels in heap in between. Edward frowned. A superior, smug bastard was annoying, but familiar and comprehensible. A melancholy Colonel, on the other hand, was a cause for worry.

Just what had he gotten himself into?

While he stood there dithering like an idiot, Mustang shook himself and slipped in. A good-sized bundle wrapped in paper and tied up with twine landed on the bare mattress. Another, even larger, followed, and Roy remarked over his shoulder, "I ordered sheets and extra bedding while I was at it, if you want to give me a hand."

"Huh?" Edward blinked stupidly, causing another half smile to twitch up the corners of ex-officer's mouth. With exaggerated care, Mustang said, "Give me a hand making the bed, Full Metal."

"Oh." Now he felt like a real idiot. Sheets. Of course they wouldn't be sleeping in a bed with no sheets.

But then why was his throat going dry, even as his human palm began to sweat? Somehow, sticking with Roy night after night had been easier when it was less convenient, if that made any sense. Which it didn't. Now that a temporary arrangement was at risk of becoming permanent, he found that he didn't quite know what to make of it. Good God, had he somehow given the Colonel the wrong idea?

Was he taking advantage of a man who had become rudderless and adrift, to move in and control the other's life?

Ed wasn't stupid, or at least he hoped he wasn't, even if he'd been thinking lately that he might not be quite as brilliant as everyone, his father included, expected. Living in Mustang's house had gotten… comfortable. As if it really were his home. They could talk, or not, and it made no difference. Neither of them was likely to get seriously offended if the other was in a contrary mood. But lately, he'd a couple of times found Roy looking at him with an oddly wistful smile, kind of like the way Mother had once looked at Ed and Al. All fond, and full of reminiscence of the good sort, tinged with an awareness that her boys were growing up and that nothing lasts forever. As a result, he'd been steeling himself against the inevitable day when the Colonel would return from one of his infrequent trips into the outside world to tell him that the hunt for the missing Full Metal Alchemist was over, and that it was time for him to be on his way.

But simultaneously, Ed had settled into a routine. Sharing the housework. Sharing his thoughts on research as his insatiable mind refused to stay quiet. Cajoling the amused and resigned officer into ordering books that had either been newly published in the returning prosperity of post-military rule, or that the younger blond had simply never had the luxury to explore because they had been too far removed from the focus of his single-minded quest.

They'd been living together as though they really were partners. Were _friends_. And suddenly, Ed needed to know if it was real, or if he'd trapped the tormented former officer into being a surrogate for Al, just because he himself couldn't stand to be alone.

Mustang had unwrapped the bundles and gotten busy shaking out crisp white sheets while the extra set of hands just stood there and stared, lost in confusion. But he paused attentively enough when Ed cleared his throat. "Um… Colonel?" No, too formal, and besides, as the exasperated man had pointed out repeatedly, no longer accurate. Flustered, Ed tried again with "Mustang?" and ended up tacking a belated "Sir." onto the end of that. Finally, desperate, he nearly shouted "_Roy!_" when the cool dark eye turned to the ceiling in an expression of patient suffering.

"Yes, Full Metal? Is there something you want to say?" The lazy drawl that never failed to send Ed's blood pressure rocketing was enough to break the younger man out of his state of conflicted indecision and send him stalking over to grab the Flame Alchemist by his shirt front and give him a hard shake.

"Will you just, for once, be serious!" Furious, he glared up at the mocking face, and was surprised to see a glimpse of real temper in a momentary tightening of the lips and a narrowing of the already intense, remaining eye, only to have it be quickly tamped down and concealed behind a faint, superior smile.

"I wasn't aware that I wasn't being 'serious,' Elric." Smooth, suave, every bit the dilettante that Ed remembered, while a subtle shift of the shoulders within the shirt he had hold of, and a minute change in balance said that yes, Mustang _was_ in deadly earnest, but that he would never admit it. Ed had to wonder when he had suddenly gotten proficient in 'Roy-speak.'

Not that it mattered, because it meant that finally he might get an answer that he could make sense out of. He opened his mouth, intending to ask about Al, and whether the annoying man felt that he was being pressured, but what came out was the question's mirror image: "Are you just using me because you're lonely, or is this what you really want? I- I need to know."

" 'Using you?' " the Colonel echoed. A haunted, stripped down look passed over his face, barely there, then gone. Ed watched as a rapid succession of answers were taken down, examined, and then returned to the shelf. Whatever was going on under that untidy mop of silky straight black hair, it was something that Mustang didn't want to discuss. Which of course meant that the other alchemist was determined to ferret it out, just like the way they had always battled things out in the old days. But there was nothing entertaining about how the fight dimmed in the one black eye, or how the other man suddenly seemed to _age_. Edward let his hands drop from the crumpled white cotton, allowing his captive to take a step back away.

"I…" Wearily, Roy made a vague motion, taking in the new furniture and the rest of the jumble. "I don't know, Full Metal. Maybe it was an attempt to manipulate you, to play the game. I have no idea any more. But I would like you to stay. If you're willing."

There was an uncomfortable sense that the Colonel had just answered a completely different question from the one that Ed had asked. And one that didn't seem to have any bearing on the 'game,' either. It was one thing to get all hostile and defensive about the way that the old Mustang had maneuvered events down paths that he felt they should take, but it was another thing altogether to hurt the man. And it was looking like he had. Ed could forgive his traitorous mouth for accusing the officer of continuing with bad habits, when he had intended to ask if _he_ were the one at fault - given the bastard's track record, it wasn't that outrageous an assumption – but it was no excuse to cross the line into the personal.

Awkwardly, Ed rubbed at the back of his neck with his flesh and blood hand. Well, if honesty seemed to be the rule of the new turn their conversation had taken, the least he could do would be to reciprocate. Equal trade, and all that. "Ah… I… Oh, Hell. Yes, thank you. I'll stay. Somebody's got to keep you from making an ass out of yourself. And if Lieutenant Hawkeye isn't here, I guess it's up to me."

Roy's head jerked up at the back-handed, surly acquiescence. One elegant brow tented into a sharply skeptical 'vee,' barely visible under the shaggy growth of his bangs. His voice was nearly normal as he drawled, "I see. That's certainly big-hearted of you."

The glare Ed shot back was nearly enough to strip paint. "Yeah. It is. And don't you forget it, either, asshole."

_

* * *

To be continued_


	5. Part Five

**Rain: Part Five **_

* * *

A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_Long author comments at the end, but in brief, I'll be gone from now until the end of this month, first to a users' conference, and then to visit NLS in D.C. The laptop will be going with, of course, but I probably won't have much internet access. I hope to have Rain: Part 6 done by the time I get back, and maybe also chapter 17 of Reflections. Wish me luck!_

_L.A. Mason_

* * *

Considering that they were two people with such disparate working styles, it was surprisingly easy to settle into a routine.

The morning after the arrival of that enormous bed had gone so smoothly that it was nearly anti-climactic. For one thing, after the best night's sleep that either of them had had in a long time, Ed had been forced to grudgingly admit that buying the damned thing had been a good idea. In Roy's opinion, he himself had shown remarkable restraint by not gloating. First up as usual, he'd made breakfast – including following the blond's exasperated directions on how to make the coffee – and been waiting meekly at the table by the time a yawning and mellow steel alchemist put in an appearance.

It had been all he could do to not burst out laughing, right then and there. Elric glowered balefully and proceeded to bury the table under fresh stacks of books, but even he had a hard time maintaining a surly demeanor. Yes, the bed had definitely been worth every penny.

Now, if the plan to enter the political arena would just go as smoothly.

The rapid _scritch_ of Full Metal's pen as he methodically took notes from a basic political science text was a case in point. Roy remembered the book well – it harked back to a first-semester course at the officer candidates' school, after all – and there was certainly nothing in it worthy of such in-depth attention. But Edward, having made up his mind to absorb every nuance of the government's structure, was going to reduce the book to a pile of well-organized notes and opinions, even if he never referred back to those pages again. The older alchemist, by contrast, liked to get a gut-level _feel_ for a subject, without cluttering up his brain with incidental facts and details. Only then, after the groundwork had been laid, did he bother to pay attention to all the rest. The end result was that he had a better intuitive grasp for the big picture, but the younger blond could synthesize a brand new conclusion out of the random details that ended up loaded into his brain.

It made for an interesting contrast, and some fascinating arguments. Unfortunately, they were no closer to finding a way to make things _work_ than they had been when they started.

The last book landed on the 'finished' pile on the floor with a thump, and Roy looked up to find his houseguest staring at him with a predatory gleam in his bright amber eyes. That did not, as a rule, bode well, but Roy _had_ agreed to Full Metal's plan of action. Still, that didn't mean that he wanted to seem too eager. He rubbed carefully at the edge of the patch covering the socket of his own missing eye, and feigned disinterest. "Did you find evidence of fiscal irresponsibility? Trust me, that's old news; everyone knows that military contracts are ludicrous."

A decidedly dangerous grin answered. "No. I found something better."

"Ah?" the former officer asked mildly. The last discovery to distract Ed had resulted in a twenty minute lecture on a flaw in import tariffs. Roy sipped at the dregs of his cold coffee and grimaced, adding, "Now, that's disgusting…" He patted the flank of the china server, and abandoned the idea of a refill; the pot was every bit as cold as his cup, and it would be too much trouble to go make a fresh batch. Unless the other side of the table could be persuaded to do it? He raised a hopeful eyebrow, the sharp black line nearly hidden behind his hair, and was rewarded with a wadded up sheet of paper that bounced off his forehead.

"Asshole." The succinct insult clearly said 'you are _not_ funny,' even as it made Roy chuckle. The far wiser course would be to not provoke the steel alchemist, but the temptation was irresistible. Roy was bored. Ed was entertaining. It was that simple.

Unfortunately, his victim seemed to have caught on to the game, because the blond only speared him with a sharp look, and held up a sheet of paper covered in lines and boxes, as if it would explain everything.

Which it did not.

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Perhaps he had made a mistake in thinking that the two of them could work together harmoniously. Certainly, once Edward got the bit between his teeth on an idea, there was no fending him off. "Okay. I surrender. What did you find?"

Ed gave him an evil smirk that wouldn't have looked out of place on his old commander's face. "On the assumption that you're a lazy bastard and avoided actually reading your textbooks when you were a student, I'll start at the beginning. Parliament is divided into the Upper and Lower Houses. Membership in the Upper is determined by birth or by appointment, while the Lower is made up of representatives elected by each district"

"With the number of representatives determined not only by population density, but by geographic area. Contrary to your obviously low opinion of me, Full Metal, yes, I _did_ read the books. Now, if you're done maligning my work ethic as well as my capacity to memorize boring facts, can we move on?" The complaint came out sounding more petulant than he intended, and the way Elric's grin became triumphant gave Roy an uneasy feeling that said that his table mate had spotted a weakness.

"Okay. So who's eligible to run for a seat in the Lower House?"

Cautiously, Roy replied, "Any citizen of Amestior registered as a resident in his or her district who is over the age of thirty, and has never been convicted of a felony crime."

The grin, impossibly, became even wider matched an equivalent sinking sensation in the older man's gut. And, sure enough, the boy crowed "Wrong!" while pointing one automail finger at his former superior like a pistol.

"What do you mean, 'wrong?' " the Flame Alchemist snapped testily. Reading with only one eye had already given him the start of a headache, and with no coffee on the horizon, his patience for being on the receiving end of his companion's jokes was wearing thin. It wasn't so bad when _he_ was the one harassing the other man, because he could normally count on Elric's temper to get him off-topic quickly. But today for some reason was proving to be the exception to the rule. "We've been over this before. If I'm to run for a seat in Parliament, we will have to move to my home province, as that was the last place that I was registered as a resident. Given that I'm unwilling to do so, and that there isn't sufficient time before the next general election to change my residency to Central, we have no choice but to set our sights lower, and aim for a spot in the city assembly. Then next time, we'll be ready for Parliament."

"Nope. We aren't going to settle for second best. We're shooting for it this time. I found a way around the residency thing." Edward shook his head emphatically, sending his thick braid forward over his shoulder. Sitting there, clad in one of Roy's old dress shirts, he looked so much like any other teenaged boy that it was hard to remember that he become the youngest state certified alchemist for a reason – because the mind housed inside the body was sharper than that of most men twice his age.

Intrigued in spite of himself, Roy abandoned his cold coffee and leaned back in his chair to stare at Edward. "Really? And what's the loophole?"

Full Metal, of course, started his explanation at the far end of the barn. "You retired from the army."

"Yes."

"And they deeded this house to you at that time."

"Again, yes."

"Then you're in the running for the Central seat coming open in the next election."

Baffled, Roy blinked. "Come again?"

Elaborately nonchalant, the blond took a swallow of his own, stone-cold coffee, and nearly managed to suppress his reflexive shudder at the flavor. Carefully, he set the cup aside and raised intent, sun-bright eyes to meet his Colonel's black stare. "Sciezka probably would have found it faster," he admitted. "But it seems that when an officer is given a pensioner's house like this" He waved his living hand at the tiny cottage surrounding them, "The officer's residency dates from occupancy, not from when he visits the registrar's office. Basically, they made you a resident of Central by giving you a house in it, two years ago."

A shiver that had nothing to do with the springtime damp outside ran up the dark haired alchemist's spine.

* * *

Warm… He was blissfully, deliciously _warm_, with that soak-it-through-to-the-bones, radiant glow that only came from sleeping in full sunlight. Roy wriggled a little, stretching, and absently stroked the fall of hair that lay across his chest. The thick, tangled strands were hooked into the buttons of his pajamas, wound haphazardly around his biceps, and threatening to crawl down the open collar of his top. He snorted, softly, trying not to wake his bedmate, even as his fingers automatically began the task of teasing out knots and smoothing the fine threads. The weight leaning against his chest gave a drowsy, contented whine, and burrowed in even closer.

It was… nice… lazing around in a decent-sized bed, with the crispness of fresh sheets contrasting sweetly with the firm give of a brand-new mattress. That he was sharing it with a cuddly arm-full just made the unexpected treat of sleeping past sunrise complete. If he was lucky, she would be agreeable and grateful, and in the mood for a bit of exercise of a more energetic kind… A tiny shift over, and the compact, warm body was nestled perfectly between Roy's arm and ribs, the sleek, now tangle-free hair slithering around the self-satisfied man's throat and jaw. It felt so wonderfully right when his hand automatically cupped the neat derriere that presented itself in exactly the perfect position. A single, gentle stroke of his thumb along the fabric-covered divide, and her leg was sliding up over his thigh, opening paradise to exploration.

God, on days like this, it was _good_ to be alive.

An open-mouthed snore of astonishing volume jolted Roy out of his fantasies, and crash-landed him back into reality.

Scratch that. On a day like this, he would have to be grateful if he lived without needing full-body traction and a cast that covered every square inch of his body. What in Hell had possessed him to start molesting a sleeping Full Metal? He had to have known on _some_ level or other that the person sharing the bed was not only male, but _that_ particular male… so when had his traitorous libido decided that a little dream was in order? Tensed, Roy cautiously opened his eye, and ended up squinting at a blaze of golden glory that rivaled the best that forbidden alchemy could create, as the transformative energy of the Sun streamed across Edward's beautiful hair. The owner of said hair made a sleepy, discontented sound, perilously close to a growl, and the heavy, metal leg thrown carelessly across the older man's thighs tightened possessively. Hastily, Roy got his hand off of the bottom that he had been fondling, distractedly thinking that he'd better let sleeping dogs lie. The problem was, it didn't feel like Elric was going to return the favor, and unhand _him_.

Or, was it 'un-leg?'

Roy bit his lip until it bled when the boy squirmed into what was probably a very comfortable position unless one happened to be facing imminent death by dismemberment, rubbing the solid heat of a surprisingly sizable erection down the outside of the Flame Alchemist's hip. His initial hope that Ed's movements were accidental went out the window when the languid slide was repeated to the accompaniment of a throaty moan. The sound went straight to the former soldier's groin, and had other parts of him standing at rigid attention before defensive counter-measures – such as reciting the Army Manual of Protocol – could save him.

And then Ed's wandering hand settled where it shouldn't have, and squeezed, and Mustang's good intentions when it came to keeping quiet, and keeping still went straight out that sun-filled window; he gasped, and jerked. And woke the military's dog.

Scalded awake, the compact blond yelped, and floundered in the welter of bedding. The sound of palms slapped together gave Roy barely a second to regret the loss of all that lovely new bedding before feathers exploded everywhere. Tatters of the shredded comforter rained down, accompanied by floating tufts of down that formed an indoor, springtime snowstorm. Out of the whirling white, the razor edge of a transmuted blade kissed Roy's throat. He sneezed – carefully – and blew away most of the white fluff that settled to cling to his lashes and messy black hair.

Furious, Ed dug a little harder with his automail's sword, snarling "What the Hell do you think you're doing, you self-serving, twisted pervert!"

It had to be a death wish. There was no other explanation for it. A weak version of his trademark smirk was trembling at the corners of the Flame Alchemist's mouth when he answered, "Saluting?"

Confusion flitted across the handsome young features, rapidly followed by stunned comprehension in a blush that practically glowed, it was so incandescent. Then the enraged blond was throwing himself full onto the unresisting man, flesh and blood hand fisting a handful of the pajama top's collar while his automail scrapped dangerously across Roy's Adam's apple. Landing diagonally across the taller form had the unanticipated side effect of putting them groin to groin, sending a spark of desperate heat straight up to Mustang's hind brain. Involuntarily, his hips twitched, repeating the contact.

Roy watched as lambent gold eyes above him shifted hue, darkening as Edward's pupils dilated in a mingled rush of mortification and lust. Embarrassment won out, and with an incoherent oath, Full Metal was off of his former superior, off of the bed, and thundering down the stairs toward the first floor and escape.

* * *

By some miracle, the instinct for self-preservation had actually won out over the desire to flee the scene. Shaking his head slightly, the former Colonel leaned against the kitchen wall and stared though the door's window at the lone figure sitting huddled on the floor of the otherwise barren dining room.

Full Metal was compressed into the littlest lump possible, arms locked around upraised knees. He might as well have the words "miserable," and "conflicted" tattooed on his forehead, given the way his entire small body radiated unhappiness.

Well, there was no help for it; Roy was going to have to "fix" things. He shoved at the swinging door and slipped through the widening gap. A tell-tale hinge-squeak alerted the younger man, causing him to press his face into his folded arms. Hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, the dark haired alchemist stared down at his one-time subordinate. The problem was, this wasn't the sort of situation that a direct order would do any good in, even assuming that Ed broke with tradition and actually listened for once. Sighing, he freed his hands and slid down the sit beside the stupefied youth. There was the barest flicker upward of bright eyes to serve to warn him that his continued presence had been noted, but the contact was so brief that the former Colonel wasn't certain what kind of a welcome it represented. Roy pinched meditatively at the bridge of his nose, warding off the beginnings of what promised to be another migraine of epic proportions. But still, he had his duty as a friend to do, even if he _was_ no longer the Elric brothers' commander. "Ed…?" he began carefully, "Why are you upset?"

The firm mouth quivered, becoming childishly frail before Edward's legendary determination kicked in. The smaller alchemist ground out, "Look, I'm sorry. So, just drop it, and get the hell out of my face. Sir."

It was the insulting 'sir' that did it, Roy later reflected fuzzily. But right at the moment, he found himself growling, "Shut up." as he wound a double handful of the sun-bright hair between his fingers and dragged the stunned and protesting teen half into his lap, before using his mouth to seal off further, nascent protests. Ed struggled briefly, then melted bonelessly.

The inevitable spitting and hissing would be worth it. Really, Full Metal should never have been known as a "dog of the military," when "cat" was a far more accurate descriptor. The boy arched under the caress of two human hands as if he had transmuted into a feline form, finally shifting under his own power to sit astride his old commander's legs. Ever cautious, one restraining hand remained locked into the length of gold, while Roy chanced stroking the other slowly from scalp to the quivering muscles of a firm bottom. The trembling flex of hard muscles under his palm made him grin into their shared kiss, earning him a puzzled, half-frustrated whine.

But enough of that; there would be time for more, later. Perhaps. If the boy in question didn't staple him to the wall with a burst of alchemical power and slowly torture him to death. Roy tugged on the leash of hair, transferring his attentions to the soft, beardless skin along Full Metal's jaw. He spoke with quiet force between each nip of his teeth, treading the fine line between keeping the blond alchemist malleable and depriving him of the ability to think entirely. "Listen to me, Edward. I'm not your commanding officer anymore. And I don't want to be. I don't want a loud-mouthed, bad tempered, uncooperative" He stopped an inarticulate protest over the description with a fierce kiss, for once getting the last word. "—pain-in-the-ass subordinate. I want you, Edward. _You_."

"But"

Trust Edward to still be able to marshal the necessary brain cells to argue. Roy growled. "I said 'shut up.' Get it through your head: Whatever happens here, now, makes no difference. I will still be your partner in whatever we do to change Amestior. That said, whatever you decide regarding the rest of… this… is up to you. If you can honestly tell me that you're not interested, I _will_ back off." The grip he had on that length of gleaming hair relented, tacitly giving permission for Ed to speak.

Fair skin still flushed by the combination of exertion and emotion, Elric was oblivious to just how damnably attractive he was, and to how much the other alchemist wanted to take back his offer to _stop_ and finish what had begun in the wide bed upstairs. If it weren't for the fact that it would irretrievably change the quality of their growing friendship, Roy _would_, in a heartbeat. Instead. he kept still and watched the mouth that he had just kissed into a rosy shade of agreeable warmth tighten into a determined line. Wild eyes that would have preferred avoidance snapped up. Even if the child that Ed had been hadn't earned his title of 'Full Metal' thanks to his half-machine body, he would have deserved it for steel of his spine. After a moment of thought, he demanded, "How long?"

The temptation was irresistible, and Roy drawled, "Do you mean, 'How long would it take me to render you speechless?' 'How long has it been since I noticed your existence?' or 'How long since I discovered that you interest me?' " When Ed's half-vocalized growl clearly said _quit screwing around and answer the damned question!_ the dark haired man chuckled. "In order of importance, then." he said lightly. "How long would it take for me to shut you up? I have no idea, but it could be an entertaining experiment." Roy's fingers closed on his companion's arms, just above the elbow. While it wouldn't keep the badly flustered young man from leaving if he really wanted to, it did allow Mustang a chance to speak without interruption. "I've been aware of you since the moment I saw a bloodied child who had nearly killed himself by being fool-hardy and courageous enough to attempt the unattainable. And as for the last, I've wanted more than just a working relationship for about a month, since Armstrong's death. Prior to that, it was inappropriate, and no matter what you may think of me, I will neither approach someone that I am responsible for, nor do I seduce children."

Ready anger kindled in the muscular form straddling Roy's lap, and the automail fist came perilously close to the older alchemist's nose before Edward controlled the impulse to punch. "Who the hell are you calling a short kid?" he shouted. Black hair thumped against the wall with painful force as Mustang threw his head back and roared with helpless laughter. By the time he managed to control himself, the sulkily scowling blond had folded his arms across his chest and was grumbling, "Fine, fine…. I get it. You're saying I'm not a kid anymore, and that's why it's now okay to molest me in my sleep."

"Hey! Who was molesting who?" Roy teased. "I distinctly recall an automail python wrapping itself around my legs. And other things." Before the now Scarlet Alchemist could make good his escape, long fingers caged his cheeks and jaw, pulling him down into a lingering brush of lips. The older man added huskily, "You make one hell of an alarm clock."

Nose to nose as they were, Roy couldn't miss the flush of heat that prickled across the fragile skin. Nor did he miss the brief instant of terrified understanding that widened the honey eyes, before they narrowed in grim determination. Living with the Elrics underfoot for several years had taught their erstwhile commander a couple of hard lessons: such as the one that said that a scared Edward would charge headlong into whatever frightened him. As the runaway mouth opened to continue the argument, two fingers pressed across them, and Roy said firmly, "I told you: I don't seduce children." Rage and more than a little hurt replaced the determination staring him down, and Roy forestalled the younger blond's furious protests, lowering his own voice to a gentle caress. "And I don't seduce those who aren't ready, Edward. There are things that aren't meant to be rushed; a good wine, the beauty of a sunset… and discovering the pleasures of intimacy."

It wasn't as if the steel alchemist had been hypnotized as he subsided under the spell of Roy's voice. For one thing, the fierce intelligence was never more evident than it was in the hot, focused glare that he leveled at the older man. The faint, musical grind of metal fingers clenching into a metal palm told the Flame Alchemist that he was trading on borrowed time, and would soon have to equal the balance, but when Ed spoke, the words were steady. "Are you doing this because I'm the only person around, or is it really _me_ that you're after?"

To be honest, it was a fair question, and one that former officer really didn't have a good answer for. Maybe that was why he fumbled a little as he tried to put his thoughts in order? Whatever the reason, Roy was forced to forego his customary smooth delivery. "That you're the only one here… matters, but not in the way you'd think. If we hadn't gambled everything on beating the homunculus, I wouldn't have been forced to leave the military. If I hadn't left the military, I wouldn't have been here, to all intents and purposes dead, for you to be the one to find. In a different world, like what you've described as existing on the other side of the Gate, under a different set of circumstances, no, I wouldn't feel the same. But these _are_ the circumstances. Here, now… this _is_ real." He paused, considering the truth of what he was saying. Tilting his head to one side, he gave the younger man his most charming, crooked smile and reached up to draw the pad of his thumb across the set, angry mouth. When the lips parted automatically, and the tip of Ed's tongue darted out to wet them, it was all Roy could do to hold back from the desire to slip a finger past the moistened threshold. As it was, the Flame Alchemist's voice was rough and shook a little when he continued. "Here, where we are now, never doubt that I want you, because I do. I want you very much, indeed."

While, from the standpoint of a possible career in politics, it was a pity that the gifted younger alchemist had never learned to keep what he thought and felt from his face, just at that moment, Mustang blessed the lack. The trembling rush of dismay and hope, embarrassment and pique that sped across Ed's features was priceless. Broad-sided as he was by a situation that none of the laws of alchemy could account for, the boy couldn't decide which path to take, and that was all that Roy needed. In that hesitation, lay a chance. He closed the distance between them, barely touching his lips to Ed's, and whispered, "One month. Give me a month to show you what I mean. Then, you can decide what you want to do. Either way, I'll abide by your decision."

Speechless, Ed stared down at the cool, serious features, then he scrambled up and stormed out the door. Only once he was gone, and the echo of his footsteps died away on the staircase, did Roy let out the breath he had been holding and allow himself to slump wearily. It was going to be a long, long month.

**_

* * *

Author's Notes and Replies:_**_The below is extracted from an email conversation that my dear partner in crime, Kelly, and I had. Thank you Kelly, for making time to beta this chapter for me. Any remaining errors are entirely my fault. _

It wasn't as if the steel alchemist had been hypnotized as he subsided under the spell of Roy's voice. For one thing, the fierce intelligence was never more evident than it was in the hot, focused glare that he leveled at the older man. The faint, musical grind of metal fingers clenching into a metal palm told the Flame Alchemist that he was trading on borrowed time, and would soon have to equal the balance, but when Ed spoke, the words were steady. "Are you doing this because I'm the only person around, or is it really _me_ that you're after?"

**Kelly: **Ah, I like this. You had Ed reacting in a way that wasn't exactly predictable. Too often by this time, the uke would be a puddle of goo on the floor going, "Yes, you are so good! You love me! I am so lucky!"

Add to that the fact that Ed caught on to the real issue here - is what Roy is feeling for him real? Frankly, I'm bored with the whole 'stewing in silence' thing.

**LibraryCat:**You know, I think part of it is that I don't feel that Ed is a uke. If he were a little older, a little more experienced, I would say definitely not. He's smart, articulate, and he's been used to making his own way in the adult world for years. That's not the hallmark of someone who can melt into a gooey puddle the first time he's kissed.

Not that Roy is a classic uke, either... Oh, dear. I've written myself into a relationship between two people who are both seme. grin> Roy is intelligent, too, and with his background as a schemer does pretty well staying a jump ahead of Edward, but as Ed gets older, they had better find a more equal footing or Roy will be out in the cold.

"Are you doing this because I'm the only person around, or is it really _me_ that you're after?"

To be honest, it was a fair question, and one that former officer really didn't have a good answer for. Maybe that was why he fumbled a little as he tried to put his thoughts in order? Whatever the reason, Roy was forced to forego his customary smooth delivery. "That you're the only one here… matters, but not in the way you'd think.

**Kelly: **Happy Kelly. Roy explained it well. Plus, his delivery robbed of his usual suaveness lends credibility to what he says.

**LibraryCat: **(Does the happy cat dance - praise from Kelly! Yay!) Roy's delivery was a bit rusty in some of the earlier parts of the story, plus he has let Ed inside his defenses. So, yes, it felt right that he would fall back on honesty, rather than his usual sales pitch approach.

While, from the standpoint of a possible career in politics, it was a pity that the gifted younger alchemist had never learned to keep what he thought and felt from his face, just at that moment, Mustang blessed the lack. The trembling rush of dismay and hope, embarrassment and pique that sped across Ed's features was priceless. Broad-sided as he was by a situation that none of the laws of alchemy could account for, the boy couldn't decide which path to take, and that was all that Roy needed. In that hesitation, lay a chance. He closed the distance between them, barely touching his lips to Ed's, and whispered, "One month. Give me a month to show you what I mean. Then, you can decide what you want to do. Either way, I'll abide by your decision."

**Kelly: **Curious: why the pique?

**LibraryCat: **Because Ed knows he's letting his emotions get the better of him, and it's annoying. On some deep, dark level, it irks him that he is feeling hope and embarrassment over Roy of all people. I don't know that Ed is a control freak, really, but he does strike me as someone who would find it irritating to be in a passive/reactive position. He has the capacity to focus on a project that he knows will take years, so it isn't simple impatience, but he does have to feel like he's the one moving forward, and not that events are sweeping past him.

Speechless, Ed stared down at the cool, serious features, then he scrambled up and stormed out the door. Only once he was gone, and the echo of his footsteps died away on the staircase, did Roy let out the breath he had been holding and allow himself to slump wearily. It was going to be a long, long month.

**Kelly: **Well, I guess there's no doubt that I enjoyed this snip, yes? The usual, tired seme offering to the uke angle is done in a refreshing way, add to that the surprising reaction Ed has shown. You'd expect him to be more voluble about it but the fact that he didn't, hammers in the reality that Ed has changed in that world beyond the Gate. And that you've done it and keep Ed in-character is an extra bonus.

Ooh, look at me gush.

**LibraryCat: **grin> I think this is the most/best reaction I've ever gotten out of you.

I'm very glad that Ed as written comes across as that he's changed, and done so believably. Granted, he's always been old for his age, courtesy of the things he's seen and done, but I don't like the idea of Roy losing control of his brain and his libido over a child, even a remarkable one like Full Metal. Not after all the work he'd put in to get where he was in the military. Frankly, if Roy hadn't been battered by everything that I threw at him in the first couple chapters, I don't think he would make a serious move on Ed, even now.

Thank you for the feedback, love. I hope you have a good week at the university. Maybe I'll get lucky and catch you somewhere in the middle?

Hugs,

Lisa

**_And other wonderful people…_**

_To **Tenika Dargan**: Oh, please don't apologize for the long review! No, Roy can't keep his mouth shut. And here's the first swing of the two-by-four at Ed… Part Six, of course, will be from Ed's perspective. snicker> I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story, and thank you for your comments._

_To Beysie, joire1029, and quicklime, thank you, also. Beysie, I miss your insightful emails, and I hope that you're feeling better soon. Kaori-desu, and AstroKender, you've both made my day with your kind words. I'll try to live up to your expectations, and I'm tickled that you think Roy and Ed could be canon. _

_And, to the usual gang: You know that I love you all. I'll do my best. I'm sorry if I've forgotten to send a reply off-line to anyone. It's been getting a little hectic lately._

_Lisa_


	6. Part Six

**Rain: Part Six** _

* * *

A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason.  
__Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._ _

* * *

**Author's Notes:** As mentioned in the notes for Chapter 17 of** Reflections**, I've spent the past couple of weeks elsewhere, thanks to work, and mistakes are my own fault. I do, however, want to give enormous 'thank you's to ALL of the kind people who have reviewed **Rain**. Tanika Dargan, Beysie, Astro Kendar, and Kelly, in particular, have spoiled me with good discussions of characterization and plot development. With people like you reading and commenting, I can only hope that **Rain** will live up to your expectations. _

_L.A. Mason, aka LibraryCat_

* * *

Furious beyond belief, Edward kicked shut the door to the smaller of the bedrooms, closing himself off from the mocking laughter that followed him up the narrow staircase. It wasn't a rout, just a strategic retreat. Or at least that was what he sourly tried to tell himself. 

It was that, or admit that the bastard had won the round.

Groaning, he leaned his back against the wooden panel, feeling the raised, rectangular pattern of molding dig into his human shoulder, and scrape against the steel of his automail joint. The vibration buzzed along the neural connectors, a sensation that was more weird than unpleasant.

For the briefest of instants, it was as if a ghostly hand had stroked down his non-existent arm, and sensitized, Ed shivered.

That awareness was the least of his problems, really. The preceding week had rattled his composure and his temper, both, and the irritable blond figured that he was entitled to a bit of door-kicking and sulking. Preferably before he lost it completely and threw a screaming fit, despite the fact that it would have felt better to rant at the top of his lungs. Even a saint would agree that Colonel Mustang being determined and attentive was more than a person could bear. The man flirted, in a restrained, delicate sort of way. He was gracious and charming, and actually _listened_ to what his younger housemate had to say - most of the time. He came close enough to brush casually against Ed, but after that first, initial encounter involving the use of tongues and spit and strong hands that gripped so wonderfully tightly, Roy had been the model of gentlemanly behavior. There had been no repeat of that inaugural grope-session in the big bed. Too twitchy to sleep soundly, Ed very carefully kept to his own side, and resisted the temptation to cuddle Mustang through his nightmares. For one thing, Full Metal was pretty sure that that was what had gotten him into so much hot water in the first place. And for his part, the former soldier apologized each time the bad dreams jerked him into wakefulness, then rolled over and promptly went back to sleep.

What the Colonel had _not_ done was to force himself onto the younger alchemist. There'd been none of the up-against-the-wall, uncontrolled molestation that Elric had consciously been steeling himself in anticipation of. The jackass never once trespassed onto Edward's side of the bed.

Swearing under his breath, Full Metal pushed away from the solid panel at his back and tried to pace in the cramped room, an endeavor that was every bit as hopeless as figuring out Mustang's motivations. As when dealing with his host, he felt hemmed in on every side by ephemeral barriers. Adding a particularly bitter curse, he gave it up as a lost cause.

There were a couple of dented and scratched, military-issue foot-lockers stacked in front of the narrow, grimy window. Ed boosted himself up to perch on top, but the view out over the row of more cottages, all the same, failed to capture his interest. Instead, he found himself moodily picking at the familiar blue of the chipped paint between his thighs.

Who did the bastard think he was, saying things like 'I don't seduce those who aren't ready?' Ed was ready – he was plenty ready. Just the thought of that lean, elegant body stretched out at his side was enough to make the blood run alternately hot and cold in the younger man's veins, to make the harsh rasp of his own breath ring too loud in his ears. His steel fingers gouged a visible furrow in the top of the trunk, the _scree_ of metal on metal a counter-point to the growl rumbling low in his chest.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding, anyway? Ed buried his face in his hands, pressing the heels of both palms – real and false – against his eyes until he saw stars.

A month, he had _less_ than a month left to figure out what the fuck he was doing. Maybe a month would be enough time to blunt the edge of the physical hyper-awareness that gripped his heart – and other parts – with an iron hand?

Probably not.

He had a sense that they were engaged in a carefully choreographed dance that he didn't know the steps to. The Colonel was right, damn him. Touching, and being touched, had roused an ache that taking himself in hand wasn't going to soothe.

The problem was that the Mustang of the here and now got so easily discouraged. They had spent _hours_ pouring over the stacks of old newspapers that had accumulated in the corner of the parlor (the Flame Alchemist claimed that they were being saved for starting fires in the fireplace, which Edward had some doubts about) but rather than being elated that the Lower House incumbent looked like a weak threat, the former soldier moped and complained. Ed had threatened to kick some sense into him, and in response, Roy _whined_. It wasn't until the aggravated blond threw a book across the table at his partner that the sorrow and self-doubt in that opaque black eye had registered. Then Ed had felt like a jerk.

Frowning thoughtfully, he stared out at the growing dusk, hardly noticing that the lamp-lighter was approaching down the tree-lined street, transmuting the darkness with warm flames sealed within glass globes. The bleak despair that had weighed the Colonel down the night that he had tried to kill himself had eased some, had gotten replaced by a returning interest in the world… and that was good. What wasn't so good was the way the light behind the man's sardonic mask would abruptly go out, like an interruption to the electrical service in the more modern parts of the city. At times like that, Ed was reminded forcibly of the drunken wreck that had greeted him on his first night at the cottage, and it chilled him to think of how close that stranger-Roy still was. The thin veneer of relaxed, successful coping was nothing but a sham.

In a way, it kind of made sense. It wasn't as if two years of dark depression could be swept away in a couple of months. Ed had no delusions as to the transformative power of his presence in the Colonel's life. But at the same time, it honestly scared him that it could take so little to tip the scales toward self-destruction.

Was the Flame Alchemist really that fragile?

Studying his housemate/host really hadn't been going too well, Ed reflected, and that was before the whole question of 'the pleasures of intimacy' had arisen. His declared intention to achieve understanding was all well and good, but it pre-supposed that the damned bastard was going to play fair. With one kiss, Mustang had yanked the proverbial rug out from under Ed's feet, turned the world upside-down, and spit on it, to boot. But there wasn't time for that. Growling, the blond alchemist shoved his irritation aside and focused on logic.

Did it bother him that the Colonel was a guy? Ed checked his stomach for a sinking nausea, and had to conclude that, no, he didn't care. He'd always sort of assumed that he would beat Al out and capture Winry for himself, but the thought that it was a _man_ whose touch did interesting, non-nauseating things to his insides was okay. Hell, it was more than okay… A tiny, demonic grin quirked Edward's lips, then froze as the dark amber eyes reflected in the window glass widened: _Oh, crap; it i**s** more than okay. I **liked** it._ Ed's forehead thumped against the glass.

So what did he intend to do about it?

The obvious answer was to march back downstairs, grab that military bastard in civilian garb by the scruff, and drag him upstairs to that damned bed, and see what transpired. A clammy sweat broke out on the steel alchemist's human palm, slithered across the back of his neck, and on down his spine. _No, bad idea_, he concluded hastily. There was no way that he could just… _that_.

But the alternative, putting up with the leisurely, mind-destroying sadistic torture disguised as teasing was going to kill Ed, assuming that he didn't snap and take out the Colonel first. Roy was enjoying driving his victim crazy, one slow step at a time. And world's strongest alchemist, or not, there wasn't a damned thing Edward could do to stop him on his home ground.

The only solution was to derail the Conqueror of the Secretarial Pool, and preferably before Edward's virtue became his next conquest.

Thoughtfully, the younger man chewed on his lip and stared out through thin, ghostly reflections at the peaceful neighborhood. As night drew its blue-black robes over the quiet street, lights were being lit in kitchens and living rooms, affording glimpses through parted drapes of other, normal lives. Ordinary lives, belonging to people who did not deserve to know the horrors of war first hand. They were the ones who had a right to expect succor from two young men who had been State Alchemists, and dogs of the military. If Ed was serious about distracting Mustang from his self-imposed one-month deadline, and about protecting himself in the process, then the ideal solution was to remind the would-be politician about those who _really _needed them.

Those were the people who had to come first; certainly not a short, blond, has-been State Alchemist.

* * *

Thankfully, it was Roy's night to cook because Ed's stomach gurgled alarmingly when he marched back into the parlor and smelled food for the first time in hours. Since it was the grocer's day to deliver, they had fresh baked bread, and a block of pale yellow butter. There would be milk in the kitchen ice box, too, but the chef of the day knew better than to try to get the elder of the Elrics to drink any. Instead, there was a pot of coffee and clean cups for each of them. 

A good cup of coffee was enough to distract Ed from his troubles. Almost enough, anyway. He dropped into his chair and poured out the steaming black drug.

"I was wondering if you were going to come back down." A sardonic lift of one slanted black eyebrow accompanied the comment as Mustang slid into his own chair across the table. Ed grunted noncommittally. "Make any progress?" continued Roy as he helped himself to potatoes.

The reply was nearly another grunt, but Ed stopped himself in time. There was a wicked gleam in his honey eyes, as he drawled, "Yeah, I believe I have."

"Oh?" Polite interest, together with a "Pass the bread, if you would?" told the younger man that his companion was struggling to appear to give the matter only half of his attention, if that. Ed coughed to hide a chuckle. If Roy thought he was going to get an answer on a personal front, he was in for a surprise.

"We're going after Lindholm's seat."

"We are?" The knife loaded with butter paused in mid-air, then carefully resumed its trajectory, accepting the conversational gauntlet. "I thought out of the local politicians, Sullivan was an easier target."

"Yeah. He is." Maddeningly, Ed paused and took a sip of his scalding coffee, before taking pity on the tiny frown that creased Mustang's forehead. To someone else, to an outsider, the former officer's bland expression would have been one of simple boredom, but for the steel alchemist it signified uneasiness. But that understanding didn't prevent Edward from keeping his own voice light and unsympathetic. "The way I figure it is this: yeah, Sullivan's the easier target, but he was also the late Fuhrer's lapdog. With the Fuhrer gone, he's a nothing. But if we take out Lindholm, we ought to be able to control Central's other two representatives, effectively giving us all three seats in Parliament, and yielding a nice block vote on any bills that come up, even without having to lobby in other districts."

"Ah. I see. Lindholm is the only one who might oppose us. Take him out, and Sullivan will fall into line. Cruestet can be counted on to vote with the majority, giving us the three votes." dryly, Roy summed up the suggested strategy, then shook his head slowly.

"What?" Annoyed by the vote of no-confidence, Ed threw his fork down onto his plate and glared at the smirking features across from him.

"They're men, not chemicals in a formula, Full Metal." Typically, the officer responded to a display of temper with amusement. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the backs of his laced together fingers. "You haven't asked _why_ Cruestet gives in so readily. It's not simply a property of his personality, the way extreme ductility is a property of gold. Rather, according to what Hughes told me years ago, the others have something to hold over his head to _force_ his compliance. And that something we do not have."

"Oh." Nonplussed, Ed scratched at the back of his neck and considered. Roy, damn him, was right: he hadn't given any thought to the reason behind Creustet always voting the way the other Central representatives did. And without someone with Hughes' skills, there was no means at their disposal to find out, either. He vented an annoyed sigh and slouched down in his chair.

"However," Outwardly, Roy's attention was fixed solely on his plate as he picked up his silverware, until he spoiled the illusion by flicking a suddenly sharp glance through the curtain of his black hair. "Lindholm is an obstructionist pain in the ass. Removing him from office _would_ make our lives easier."

At the description, Ed's eyes widened, and he sputtered, finally breaking down into a guffaw of laughter than nearly toppled him out of his seat. The Colonel, calling someone _else_ an 'obstructionist pain in the ass-!' Helpless and out of breath, he pounded – gently – on the table with his automail fist.

"I didn't think it was _that_ bad of an idea." Roy muttered. "Especially since you suggested it first."

"N- no-" Hiccuping, Ed waved the complaint away. "N- not that. Y- you. Hello? P- pot, meet k- kettle." Understanding dawned on the older man's face, bringing a flush of color to the pale cheeks, and Ed lost it and simply howled with mirth. Maybe suggesting that it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black was a bit much, but Roy honestly deserved it after all the trauma he'd put the younger alchemist through in the past week.

Unfortunately for the Flame Alchemist, crisping his houseguest to a cinder wasn't an option, and Ed knew it.

* * *

The bottom edge of the book digging into Ed's stomach as he lay stretched out on the couch was comforting. The solid weight was a clear indicator that all was right with the universe, and if it hurt a bit when he took too deep of a breath, that was okay, too. Books were tangible. 

Unlike the confused, emotional mess roiling at the back of his mind. But just now, Ed stuffed that thought back where it belonged and concentrated on macro-economics. He needed a basic understanding of market forces if he was to apply them to figuring out how business interests affected the political climate. Plus, in its own way, the topic was _interesting_. He could almost see how the laws of equivalent trade applied to back-scratching and pork-barrel projects. The politician who slipped in projects that lined the pockets of powerful men in his territory could then count on their under-the-table support for new goals, which in turn led to more money coming in…

A shadow blocking his light caused Ed to stop reading mid-sentence, and glare.

"Hungry, yet?" Roy asked, offering a plate of sliced apples. Peeled, it was possible to ignore the fact that they were from last fall's crop, and beginning to wrinkle just a little. Ed eagerly grabbed several pieces.

"Yeah. Thanks." he mumbled around the mouthful. Chuckling, Roy set the plate on the younger man's chest, just in front of the book.

"You worked through lunch again. No wonder you're so short."

"Heh! Who're you-" A warm hand pressing down next to the plate of apples halted Ed's instinctive surge upward. "Gently. You'll spill them, and the next delivery isn't till Friday. If these end up on the floor, you'll have to do without."

The scowl that should have drilled a hole through the arrogant bastard simply slid off of him like water off of a duck. Offended, Edward slapped the restraining hand aside and sat up. The fruit promptly spilled across his lap, upping the intensity of his fierce eyes by an order of magnitude. Roy was unaffected but far from oblivious, a snicker telling the half reclining blond that the perverse man was enjoying seeing Ed at a disadvantage. But then the Colonel nudged Edward's hip with his knee, urging him to scoot over, and perched himself on the edge of the couch by his side.

The line of warmth, and the hard feel of bone and muscle pressed up against him froze the younger man. The single black eye was hooded, a glittering brightness that left Ed again feeling as if he had missed out on something of vital importance. Then that black gaze flickered down, hiding behind veiling lashes as he began picking up each slice of apple, deft fingers brushing feather-light against the fabric of Edward's trousers. Mustang paused, the final slice held up between them for a moment before he leaned forward, offering it. Mesmerized, the steel alchemist's lips parted, allowing the slice entry, while his own fixed, wide eyes never wavered from Roy's. Once the slice was gone, the lean fingers reached for the spill of gold over Ed's shoulders.

Edward tensed, half expecting some inane, over-the-top crack about how his hair was as beautiful as alchemical gold, but Roy said nothing. Instead, that single eye, blacker than sin and glittering with unholy intensity, remained fixed on Edward's, while the man raised that strand of hair to his lips. He held the pose for a bare second, then released it and rose to his feet. Hands carelessly in his pockets, he ambled away as if nothing had happened.

Speechless, Ed felt his jaw drop. _What the fuck was** that**!_

* * *

It was with understandable wariness that he slid into his normal chair at dinner time. Roy, however, merely grunted and waved vaguely in the direction of a covered platter in the middle of the table, to all intents and purposes too engrossed in the fresh newspaper that he had his head buried in to even notice that Ed's hair still hung lose over his shoulders. 

For some reason that the younger man couldn't entirely understand, he had an immediate urge to rip the paper to shreds; how dare that bastard ignore him after he'd—

After he had what? What exactly _had_ the pain in the ass Colonel done, anyway? A thoughtful frown settled on Edward's face as he considered. Just who was the genius here? Certainly not the Full Metal Alchemist, if it was going to be that easy for his opponent to rattle him. Because that was surely what Mustang had intended. Edward had expected the kind of flattery that the womanizing officer used with his other conquests, and therefore that was precisely what Roy had _not_ done, in order to throw Edward off his stride.

Ed really had to hand it to him; the man was a _cunning_ bastard. But he was no match for an Elric.

Determined to hold his own, the blond selected the thickest, most imposing book in his 'to-read' pile, dropped it on the table with a muffled _bang_, and flipped it open. Two could play at the ignoring game. He reached for the platter, intent on filling his plate with what smelled like chicken in mushroom gravy, but as soon as the lid cleared the big, oval dish, he snatched his hand away, causing the cover to go clattering across the wide table. He'd been right about the chicken and mushrooms, but there, perched on top of the neat mound of wide egg noodles and filleted meat sat a small, neatly wrapped box in red tissue. A crisp rustle warned Ed that the Colonel had laid aside his newspaper and was watching the little drama in silent interest. Flustered, the steel alchemist could only stare at the motionless box as if it were a snake… or a bomb.

"It _is_ addressed to you, in case you were wondering." Roy offered helpfully.

"Ah…" Paralyzed, Ed finally tore his gaze from the platter. Roy's expression was the perfect mix of polite concern and sympathy. Seeing that there was no way that his dinner companion was going to make a move – Elric wasn't stupid enough to handle a box containing the gods only knew what – the Flame Alchemist took it and slit the covering with his butter knife before sliding the now-exposed contents across the table.

Edward didn't know whether the wiser course would be to get up and flat-out run away, or to look. In the end, curiosity won out, and he risked a quick glance that became an open-mouthed stare. He barely heard when the older man said softly, "You told me that you didn't like your hair getting in your way when you were working… I thought this might do the trick."

And how the hell was Ed supposed to answer that? Gleaming a shade darker gold than the hair in question in the mellow light of the gas lamps, a hair clip bearing his crown-winged-staff-and-serpent emblem mocked him from the innocuous box, just daring him to reach out and pick it up. And he couldn't. Ed simply couldn't touch the damned thing. It would mean giving in, accepting, letting Roy win if he broke down and took the hair clip into his hand.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. The other chair scrapped back, just audible on the thin carpet, and Roy was circling the big table. He leaned past Ed's shoulder to pick up the clip, smelling at such close range of cinders and heated metal, something that had been conspicuously absent in the past months. And it hit the bemused blond that that was _Roy's_ work that he'd been staring at, not that of some artisan in the world outside. Roy's gifts had crafted that clip with its all-too-familiar symbol.

Roy had made it.

The realization was borne out by the words murmured in a deep, amused whisper behind Ed's ear, "I have to admit that metal-working has never been my strong suit as an alchemist, so I'm not sure how well this thing is going to hold." Deft hands were gathering the strayed locks of gold together into a neat tail, smoothing out tangles. The heavy weight of cool metal _snicked_ into place, and equally cool fingers brushed lingeringly over the nape of Edward's neck. He shuddered, briefly, at the familiarity of the touch, and then it was gone. Humming quietly, Roy returned to his side of their work-cum-dining table, seated himself, and shook the newspaper back out. Behind its enveloping shroud, Ed head the clink of a china cup glancing off a saucer, and could just visualize the infuriating man taking a self-satisfied sip. His hands clenched into impotent fists; the damned pervert was so going to pay for his impudence.

He was still fuming, hours later, when a well-known tread on the hard kitchen floor told him that his dishes assistant had arrived to dry and put away the plates from their supper. Ed more than half expected some smart remark on the clip still gathering his hair together – which would give him the opportunity to yank it free and hurl it into a certain smirking, handsome face… So, of course, Roy didn't say a word. He really ought to have seen _that_ coming.

But neither did the older man lay a patronizing hand on top of his head, nor did he so much as hint at a smirk. In fact, his features were relaxed, and grave… open, even. It was damned spooky.

The docile manner in which the former head of a military unit took up a dish cloth and began drying as if he were an enlisted man was even worse. It had been on the tip of Ed's tongue to threaten to refuse to take his turn at cooking the next night if Mustang had tried to weasel out of his share of the chores the way he usually did. The whole 'let's freak out the bean by not behaving as expected' business had to stop. The large skillet slammed back into the sink with a resounding crash as Ed spun about, angrily opening his mouth to shout, only to find himself trapped against the edge of the counter by two muscular arms. Fleetingly, he noted that the skin exposed by the man's rolled up shirt sleeves was as pale as milk, in mute testimony of two years spent holed up in that damned pensioner's cottage of his. But the gaze that captured Ed's was anything but tamed; it was more like a knife blade of obsidian held to the younger alchemist's throat. What he had been about to scream into the intent face got swallowed in a nervous gulp.

Roy just smiled and said mildly, "I can scrub, if you'd rather not." Reaching past to pick up the abused fry-pan, he leaned in close enough that the open collar of his shirt whispered against Ed's cheek, bearing with it the faintly astringent scent of shaving lotion and of the hard yellow soap that they used for their laundry, and beneath that, the tang of fire and ash. Anticipating, the shorter blond tensed, but again, nothing happened.

Nothing. So why the hell was he disappointed?

A low murmur in Ed's ear said, "It's perfectly natural to feel like this. Deep inside, you're still human, no matter what's happened to your body…" and then the man was turning away, picking up a stack of plates and taking them to the glass-fronted cabinet opposite.

Through the fine, limp cloth of his white shirt, human muscles shifted and stretched, long, lean lines that teased in a different way from the dark haired officer's smirk or snide remarks. A sudden flush of heat rising to Edward's face had him spinning back to the sink and clutching its rim so hard that the porcelain coating cracked.

He had _not_ just imagined what it would feel like to rest his hand on that play of muscle… oh, god in heaven, he was.

It had to stop. The bastard Colonel was playing havoc with Ed's ability to focus on more important matters; was, in point of fact, casing him to doubt whether those goals _were_ the most important part of life. Growling, the sharp, topaz eyes hardened, narrowing to slits. Dammit, he would _not_ be distracted like this. Let Colonel Mustang find some other poor sod to provide his entertainment; an Elric could and would resist the temptations. They were partners for the purpose of gathering enough real power to be able to affect the course of Amestior's future, not to waste their energy on personal matters. Grimly, the steel alchemist picked up his dish-rag and began scrubbing the rest of the tableware from dinner.

_

* * *

To be continued… _


	7. Part Seven

**Rain: Part Seven**

_A Full Metal Alchemist fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**Author's Notes**: A word of warning: the research bug has again bitten me in the worst way. The various quotes in the chapter below are all real, although there is no book entitled **Aura Aris: A Collection of Alchemical Poetry**. That I made up. A longer note with details appears at the end of the chapter._

_And, once again, I offer humble and grateful thanks to the kind people who have reviewed since I last updated, and sincere apologies for losing email addresses. I do back up my hard drive – I just forgot that the address book lives in a different directory from the message archive. If I owe you an email, please, poke me. _

_L.A. Mason, aka LibraryCat_

* * *

Perhaps… the hair clip had been a bit much. Because, to judge by the tight set of Full Metal's tensed shoulders, the boy… young man… was nearing a breaking point. And Roy really didn't want to know whether that break would come in the form of a frothing, ranting fury – or something worse. Concern set a narrow, vertical crease between the officer's brows, and cautiously, he stepped up behind the shorter blond and laid a hand on Ed's human shoulder. A twitch nearly threw off the touch, forcing Roy to squeeze the rock-hard muscles gently. "Full Metal? Edward… if… I've crossed a line, I'm sorry. If you wish, we can call this whole thing off."

Rage turned the lambent eyes a molten shade of gold as Edward spun about, easily twisting out of Roy's grip. "You bastard!" he choked. "How dare you start something, and then think you can just 'call it off!' " The faint, metallic whine of automail was unexpectedly loud in the suddenly silent kitchen as Ed raised both hands and _shoved. _A stunned Flame Alchemist stumbled backward, barking his hip painfully on the corner of the stove, but the furious figure stalking after him didn't give Roy a chance to catch his balance. Elric slapped the hand that stretched out to seek support away from the corner of the appliance, pushing until the dark haired man was leaning away, off-kilter, with the oven handle digging into the small of his back.

The wide-legged, aggressive stance was more than a little threatening, and a shiver of something very like fear scurried up Roy's spine. Being forced to lean back like that made him aware just how much of a disadvantage he was at, but at the same time, there was a distinct thrill to courting bodily injury. An intuition that he couldn't have explained if his life depended on it, made him meet the seething, tiger-fierce gaze that was now so nearly on a level with his own, and _smile_. Startled, the steel alchemist recoiled by the tiniest of margins, and Roy felt the corners of his mouth begin to curl up even more, as the part of his brain that never stopped calculating the odds abruptly went, _Aha! _Deliberately, he leaned forward, bringing his lips up along side of Ed's suddenly rosy ear, and whispered, "Are you saying that you _want_ me to continue our little contest, then?"

Silence. Then a sharply in-drawn breath that went nowhere as the blond realized that he was damned whether he said 'yes,' or 'no.' Either way, he'd have to yield a chunk of the high ground to the invading Mustang army.

Roy just loved it when circumstances played into his hands better than if he had planned everything.

He leaned a little closer to the still frozen steel alchemist, pitching his resonant voice even lower, making it warm and intimate in his former subordinate's ear. "I _will_ stop. All you need to do is to say the word. One… little… word. Just… 'Stop.' " The sensation of breath against the delicate whorls drew forth a powerful shiver, but not before the parted lips closed, and the white teeth met with a sharp _snap_. Ed threw off the effects of the spell, his head jerking up with enough force that the cords stood out along the column of his neck. For a second, Roy was distracted into wondering if he could get away with a clumsy, 'accidental' kiss, just there, before deciding that it was tantamount to attempted suicide. And that would mean that Ed would hurt him _twice_, once for his presumption, and again for trying to kill himself. Roy winced. There was no way that he could escape both consequences.

Oblivious to his close call, the blond whirled about, ponytail flying out in an arc that would have been painful had it been braided when it connected with Mustang's cheek. Rigid, the teen stopped dead for an instant, before he spun back into Roy's personal space. He ignored the instinctive flinch on older man's part, much to the Flame Alchemist's relief, stepping up close to growl, "You said a month, Colonel. Don't think I'm going to let you cheat!"

Staring down into the blazing eyes, full of the fierce courage and prickly, desperate pride, Roy was lost, his own temper slipping loose from the rigid control he kept over it. For once in his life, the older man balled his fists in his trouser pockets to keep them from striking, and yelled back without thinking, "Then stop running away!"

Honey gold eyes went wide with shock.

Crap.

Roy hadn't meant to actually say that, to respond to the unspoken awareness that Edward held to himself like a funeral pall; that should he ever stop facing his fears and moving forward, one slow, tormented step at a time, no matter how hard it was and how little he wanted to, he would fall.

Roy understood falling.

The youthful face wobbled, struggling and losing the fight to retain its mask of self-righteous fury, and the retired army man felt a twist of unease in his gut; Edward did not fall apart. Even on those occasions when the boy had been at the limits of his strength, battered by his inability to save those around him, Full Metal had somehow rallied, and found a way to continue on. But this time, the one who had looked out for him and protected him was the betrayer. With a single, careless accusation, Roy had crossed the line between an officer, and those he had in his charge and keeping. And, unexpectedly, it hurt to see the normally determined teenager falter. Clumsily, the dark haired man again gripped Ed's shoulder, just to the human side of the steel, and said, "Enough dishes for tonight. Why don't we go sit down, and simply relax? I'll read a bit of something to you."

Incredulity warred with common sense, and sense lost as Ed blurted out, "Read? As in 'out loud?' Why? It's not like I can't read on my own."

Roy sighed. But, at least the blond hadn't shrugged off his hand, or smacked the older alchemist into next week for his presumption. There was honest confusion in the tilt of Edward's head, and for a moment, it seemed he had forgotten his paranoia where his former commander's intentions were concerned. And that served to give Roy hope. Patiently, he said, "For pleasure, Full Metal. Words have a beauty all their own, and the ideas that they express can be worth enjoying for their own sake, even if they have no present application."

Still staring at the Flame Alchemist, the frighteningly sharp mind turned the idea around. Ed did read for enjoyment, Roy knew, but he was so used to justifying it to himself as necessary research that the concept of there being no point what-so-ever to a line of inquiry had a degree of novelty to it. But books were a safe topic, and the blond relaxed. Interested in spite of himself, Ed asked reluctantly, "What do you have in mind?"

"Hmm… Maybe Jean d'Espagnet's _Enchiridion physicae restitutae._" he answered thoughtfully. "It's been a long time since I read it." At his companion's derisive snort, he added defensively, "It's a classic."

"It's duller than dirt!" exclaimed Edward over his shoulder. But he _was_ headed into the parlor, with its warmth and treasure trove of books.

Pausing to turn down the flame of the kitchen lamp, Roy struggled to suppress all indications of surprise, keeping his features bland and unthreatening, as he asked, "You've read it?" The shorter alchemist's distinctive tread – barefoot and metal shod – became muffled as it passed from the kitchen's scrubbed, wooden floor to the other room's worn carpet with its pattern of cabbage roses, dull maroon on duller dark blue. Hurriedly, Roy put the last pot in the sink to soak and followed his housemate.

Carelessly, Elric answered. "Yeah, I read it." A quick frown of concentration flitted over his animated features, and he recited slowly, " 'The beginning of this Divine Science is the fear of the Lord and its end is charity and love toward our Neighbor; the all-satisfying Golden Crop is properly devoted to the rearing and endowing of temples and hospices; for whatsoever the Almighty freely bestoweth on us, we should properly offer again to him. So also Countries grievously oppressed may be set free; prisoners unduly held captive may be released, and souls almost starved may be relieved.' " A rude noise expressed his low opinion, as did the words that followed hard on the heels of the quote: "It's a bunch of crock. D'Espagnet spends _pages_ talking about basic chemical reactions being accompanied by flights of angels and trumpets. Take fulminating silver. Any idiot knows that dissolving silver oxide in ammonia will create an explosive. God's got nothing to do with it." Roy had to sidestep to avoid wildly gesticulating arms when the excitable blond stopped dead in his path to argue.

_Souls almost starved may be relieved…_ The dark haired alchemist repeated to himself. It shouldn't have surprised him that Ed had memorized that bit. The words were corny, perhaps, and very likely God didn't have anything much to do with it. But the sentiment expressed was also true, on a very basic level. Once, he too had held that same passage close to his heart as an example of what a _real_ alchemist ought to be.

God, where had that innocence and naiveté gone?

Oblivious, the steel alchemist was still waving his arms, elaborating on the flaws in letting philosophers – _Geeze, you can't trust those people to find their asses with both hands!_ – perform practical alchemy. A snicker threatened to escape from Roy, but he held it in, settling for a sardonically raised eyebrow. "That's not entirely fair." the former officer protested mildly. "In d'Espagnet's time, the religious hierarchy held alchemy to be only one step higher than witch-craft, even if they no longer burned individuals at the stake. It was safer to be pious."

Triumphant, Elric pounced. "See? That's the problem. They were so worried about what the authorities thought, that a lot of what they published is totally useless."

The older man had to admit that Edward had a point. But it didn't stop him from slyly saying, "All right. Then how about Gerber? What do you think of him?"

The stresses of the past few weeks were forgotten as a delighted grin spread across a boyish, almost too pretty face, peeling back the years until Roy felt a twinge of guilt. Edward was _eighteen_, dammit, and the voice of reason that said an officer should be _ashamed_ of himself for so much as _thinking_ of the dense muscles under that white shirt and those black slacks, was having a field day. Roy told the voice to shut the hell up. He was the one taking the risks here, trying to tame a feral alchemist. It was worse than breaking a wild horse to the saddle. One wrong move, and not only would Ed verbally rip him a new one, he'd probably revert to type and do it physically, too. But, God help him, every time Mustang found himself faced with the vivid _life_ housed in his counterpart's small body, his chest seized up, and his brain turned stupid. He bit his tongue before it could utter something especially idiotic.

It was damned hard being responsible, and worse having to think first.

The voice was still trying to get his attention, helpfully pointing out that Roy was trying to ignore the real issues, and to only think with his libido. And that the real problem was that somewhere along the way, what Edward felt and wanted had come to be important. Seducing him for a night through trickery wasn't enough, what Roy was finding he wanted was going to have to be the steel alchemist's idea. And that would take time.

Well, Roy Mustang _could_ do patient, he sarcastically told that inner voice. A book that he wanted caught his eye, and he plucked it from a teetering stack on the floor. Heading for the couch, he called, "Come along. I think you might like this one." Curious, Ed followed.

The black haired man seated himself at the end nearest to the fireplace, directly beneath the warm yellow flame of one of the gas jets. At his gesture of invitation, his companion dragged over a straight-backed chair and plopped down, and then proceeded to crane his neck trying to make out the title on the book's spine. Roy crossed his leg at the knee, and rested the volume against his shin, thwarting the attempt. "Bastard." mumbled his frustrated houseguest, and the Colonel permitted himself a tiny, smug smile. He began to read:

…_If these four elements do work in the fire,  
To engender and bring forth some creature,  
As the Salamander, ever living therein,  
You must conceive well of his commixtion,  
Which is by Nature and elements tempered so well,  
That he delights as gold in the fire to dwell.  
For to the creatures of the fire and his region,  
The fire is always most natural…  
_

The words died away and Roy glanced up, smirking, to catch a bewildered look that skated across the boy's face, followed by a thoughtful frown. Full Metal was hardly stupid; he grasped that the Salamander was a favorite symbol of Fire alchemy, and he knew that Roy's affinity lay in that realm, just as his own was with Earth. But it was also clear that the poem itself was unfamiliar. Relenting, the former army officer held up the book so that Ed could finally read its title: _Aura Aris: A Collection of Alchemical Poetry._ "What I just read is from Simon Forman's _Of the Division of Chaos._" Roy commented.

Intrigued, the steel alchemist plucked _Aura Aris_ from the older man's hands, and flipped through it. Half to himself, he mumbled, "Thomas Rawlin… Edmund Dickinson… Huh. I didn't know Dickinson wrote poetry…" His lips moved briefly, following a line, then he dropped the book back into Roy's hands and squirmed into a more comfortable position, his legs crossed on the dining room chair. At the expectant stare, Roy shook his head in mock-dismay and flipped through the pages until his fingers slowed, then stopped. His tone gentle, he said:

_Wilt thou, by God's grace alone  
Obtain the Stone of the Philosophers?  
If so, seek it not in vegetables or animals,  
In sulphur, quicksilver, and minerals;  
Vitriol, alum, and salt are of no value;  
Lead, tin, iron and copper profit nothing;  
Silver and gold have no efficacy.  
Hyle or Chaos will accomplish it all.  
It is enclosed in our salt spring,  
In the tree of the Moon and of the Sun.  
I call it the Flower of Honey,  
The Flower known to the Wise.  
In fine, the Flower and Honey  
Are the Sulphur and Quicksilver of the Wise.  
_

Shock widened the younger alchemist's eyes, and for a dizzy second, Roy thought _honey_, and then _yellow sulfur_, just like that described by the anonymous poet.

He wanted, desperately, to reach out and cup the smooth jaw in his hand, and to run a hand through the thick golden hair. But Ed was already on his feet, stomping over to the big table. A massive book landed with a thud at Roy's feet, and a low growl commanded, "No more stupid poetry. Read that instead."

Bemused, he hiked both eyebrows nearly into his hairline, and stared down at the solid mass of paper. It looked less like a book, and more like a lethal weapon, and Roy was glad that it had missed his bare toes. But he supposed that there was probably something in the collection of essays that would serve to pay his irritated partner back. He gave a melodramatic sigh, swallowing a snicker when Edward glared at the sound, and hefted the book into his lap. "I'll make you a deal," drawled the Colonel slyly, "We'll read one of yours, but then I get to choose something that I like. Agreed?"

There really wasn't too much the steel alchemist could say to that. If he complained, he'd come off looking selfish and petty, and if there was one thing that this more matured Ed seemed to want, it was to move beyond simple Equivalent Trade, into genuine fairness. And while the new Ed still didn't like being out-flanked, he managed to give in with better humor than the older, childish version would have. The realization made Roy offer the book gravely, no amusement showing on his pale features, earning him an impudent, unrepentant grin.

"No, no – that's okay. I'll let you pick." Anticipation brightened the sharp intelligence in the blond's gaze; obviously, he thought that he knew the content of the thick book, and believed that there was nothing between its covers that Roy could make use of. _How little he knows!_ the elder alchemist thought with a winsome smirk. In the right hands – or mouth, as the case might be – _any_ printed word became dangerous. He matched Edward's impudence with a wink, and tapped his forefinger on the open page. And, true to form, the younger man's competitive nature saw to it that his eyes narrowed in response to the challenge.

Ray had known nearly from the moment he'd first laid eyes on the severely damaged child that not only was he stubborn to a fault, but that he couldn't bear defeat. Whether the contest was against the agony of learning to accept automail, and to walk again, against his father's legacy, or the 'bastard Colonel,' Ed could give nothing but his best.

Certainly, now was no different.

Impatiently, the glinting metal hand made a circling gesture of _come on, get the show on the road_, and Roy had to fight to hold in an outright snicker. It was too bad that the younger man didn't have a taste for poetry, as there were a number of rather more erotic selections in the _Aura Aria_. But there would hopefully be time enough for that later. For now, he flipped open the heavy boards of the essay compendium's cover and scanned the table of contents. One name in particular caught his eye, and a thread of curiosity uncurled in the older man's gut. It was a clear invitation to cause a little trouble in return, and the devil in the former officer went _ah, ha!_ There was more than one way to throw an opponent off-guard, and he'd been meaning to find a way to broach the topic, anyway. Now, what would Edward make of that…? Carelessly, he said, "Here's one by Marcilio Ficino, from1518. Why don't I read that?"

The name did mean something, to judge by the way that the blood drained from Full Metal's face, leaving him starkly white, with a pinched look to his expressive mouth. Pretending not to notice, Roy added, "It's from the age of the vanished city, four hundred years ago." Coaxingly, the dark haired man held the volume aloft, trusting to his houseguest's insatiable appetite for printed matter to lure him in. It didn't prepare Roy for the way the senior Elric abruptly flushed.

"Oh, I know _all_ about him!" hissed the outraged steel alchemist. " 'The souls of the lesser and impure be the fuel that sustains the Immortality of the Wise?' What the Hell? Why would I want to hear about that?" He waved both hands, steel glittering in the lamplight, at the shelves lining the majority of the room's walls, calling attention to the wealth of other, more modern texts that overflowed into piles on the floor, the small side table, and even the spare dining chairs. "Who wants to read about some has-been? The guy was probably a quack- "

"Was Dante a quack?" Roy parried swiftly. There was a certain temptation to add 'Was Hoenheim of Light?' but he squelched that. Something in the younger man's fierce glare told him that no matter if he had done some growing up and no longer hated the man, Ed was just daring him to bring up the father that had been absent through most of the brothers' lives. Roy wanted progress, not a brawl. He allowed himself a small grunt of displeasure. It was no help at all that he had obviously stumbled yet again over the invisible, unmarked line that Ed had drawn around the battle in the underground city, when all he'd intended was to trick the younger man into discussing morality, and maybe to confirm a few facts. Past tantalizing hints had only served to whet Roy's curiosity. But at the scowl that twisted the expressive features, the ex-officer reminded himself that he was known for his patience as much as for being sneaky and conniving, and continued more gently, "You told me, once, that they had managed to create a perfected Stone. The only cataclysmic event that fit was the city that disappeared."

Miserable, the steel alchemist muttered, "A whole city's worth of lives, Mustang. I- " A closed, metal fist pounded on the battered table, rattling the abandoned dinner dishes. His voice rose in shout, "Do you have _any_ concept of the cost involved in making a Stone powerful enough to confer virtual immortality on not one, but _two_ people?"

"I did the math." Roy said, not unkindly. Edward's fair skin flushed with outrage, and he opened his mouth to refute, to argue… and in the end, said nothing. He turned his head away, uncomfortable, and resolutely looked at the tawdry yellow wallpaper to one side of his former commander. Who, sighing, offered an olive branch. "Ficino was a contemporary of Dante's, and may well have known her. I thought you would be interested in getting a feel for the prevailing school of thought from her day. It wouldn't excuse what she did, of course, but it might still provide some insight."

"Damned straight, it doesn't excuse!" the younger alchemist snapped. The hot yellow eyes snapped up, meeting calm black, and narrowed in consideration. Sulkily, he continued, "You're trying to make some point or other. I'll never get why you don't just come out and say what you're thinking, instead of making a big production out of it."

The Flame Alchemist allowed a slow, smug grin to flow across his features, and crossed his legs deliberately. The book, with his forefinger serving as bookmark, rested on top of one knee. "But Full Metal," he murmured silkily, "Where would the fun be in that?" Astonishment widened the blond's eyes momentarily, before Ed gave his own, razor-sharp smirk in return.

"Oh, never let it be said that I interfered with your fun! Okay, fine. You're running the show." Back on familiar ground, Ed nonchalantly rested his hip on the edge of the table, while reckless humor lit his face. "Well…" he drawled, "What do you want me to do?"

The line was almost too good to resist; a thin black eyebrow skated perilously high on Roy's forehead, threatening to vanish into the messy fall of equally black, straight hair. At the slight, upward jerk of Edward's chin, still challenging him to retaliate, a more genuine smile briefly curled the Colonel's lips. But instead of answering, he simply patted the couch cushion by way of invitation.

It was Ed's turn to hike an incredulous brow. "What? You think I'm nuts? It'd be safer walking into a hibernating bear's den. In spring. While playing the cymbals."

Startled into amusement, Roy laughed. He caught sight of an answering twitch in the other alchemist's lips, and treated the reluctant blond to a full dose of his most seductive, low purr, "Oh, but I know you, _Edward_. You like the thrill of doing what's dangerous. The way it makes your heart speed up, and your palm sweat, just a little. If you don't, you'll be wondering what I had in mind… for hours. It'll drive you crazy, not knowing if I really was up to something… Or not. But it's your choice.

Scowling, the steel alchemist weighed the threat of the slim volume of poetry, against the unexpectedly more hazardous than it had looked collection of essays, and lastly, his smug commanding officer. There was a definite sense of _damned if I do, damned if I don't._ And put that way, Ed really had no choice but to cross the intervening space in a couple of quick strides, and throw himself down onto the sofa. He was close enough that Roy could feel the caress of living heat, and could look down into the open collar of the shorter alchemist's shirt. The thin cotton filtered the gas jet's yellow light into a soft gilding of highlights and shadows, curling along well-defined muscles and bone, glowing on metal and scars. Roy's fingers itched to reach out and discover for himself if the steel was as warm to the touch as it looked, or if it would be a soothing coolness. _Patience_, he reminded himself, and the digits stilled, limited to the task of holding the book while he read.

Instead of Ficino, he chose an essay that was really rather boring, a beginner's introduction to laboratory practices, and the Flame Alchemist only gave it half of his attention. His couch-mate was fidgeting, alternately mesmerized by the low, deliberately seductive voice of his former commander, and distracted by trying to sit still.

Roy couldn't decide if he was flattered by the attempt, or annoyed by its on-going defeat. Finally, a finger held his place in the book as Roy paused to scowl at his companion. "Full Metal," he snapped. "If you'd rather stretch out while I read, then please do so."

Typically, Ed took it as an insult, growling, "What? You think I'm so short that I can fit on only half a couch, you bastard?"

"I did not say anything of the sort. But if the shoe fits, by all means, wear it." retorted the annoyed army man. Transparent as always, the blond's eyes widened in surprise to hear such a blunt response, then narrowed in calculation as he tried to figure out what Roy was up to. Exasperated, his former commander rolled his eyes, remarking, "Sometimes, Edward, a cigar is just a cigar." Ed glared angrily. Sighing, Roy patted his own thigh. "Here, you can use me as a pillow. Just lie down."

Dubious, his housemate measured the length of the couch, and considered the potential for traps in the offer. Yes, if he used Roy as a headrest, and put his feet up on the far arm, there would be just enough space… But there had to be a catch, and the older alchemist could nearly smell the oil burning as his former protégé over-thought the whole matter.

But at the same time, there was a spark of considering interest.

Even Ed would be the first to admit that he simply couldn't pass up a challenge, no matter if it involved something as idiotic as trying to swim while weighed down by automail limbs; prod him in the ego, and he'd bite. And now was no exception. He dropped onto the sofa, head landing on the proffered substitute cushion, sprawling with one arm dangling, and the calf of his human leg resting atop the bent metal knee of the other.

Roy grinned. "You realize it's my turn? And I don't intend to let you pick for me."

"Feh." One lip curled in mock disgust as Ed shot back, "Do your worst, old man. I won't crack."

The thick tome returned to the lowest point in the gravity well, hitting the floor with a sound reminiscent of cracking floor boards; the owner of the house winced - just in case the fancy had been true, and he _had_ damaged the cottage through the injudicious application of an alchemical doorstop. But even so, he was relieved to not only be rid of the book's mass, but to be back to making some headway with his stubborn quarry. _Edward_ had just laid his head in Roy's lap, and if that wasn't something worth marking on the calendar of these lonely days, he didn't know what was. Contented, the former military man reached for his book of poetry, and resumed reading.

_At the nub of radium  
At the hollow of the atom  
Where space is fixed upon  
A point of black light,  
A jut of green casts into  
The beating element  
At the nub of radium  
Seething with dyes and coils  
Of ether, pointed like stakes,  
There at the peak of the atom  
Where I planted a flag and drew upon my map  
The river and the shepherd,  
One coursing on the ice of the valley  
The other leaping a chasm  
His crook slashing the air like a scimitar.  
I set my blazon in the snow  
At this height, at the nub of radium,  
Where the pennon hums and flashes  
In a blast of suns…_

Whether it was the unaccustomed angle to his view of the strong line of Roy's jaw, or the more martial rhythm, the teenager seemed to have forgotten his objection to poetry, and lay quiescent. The only problem was that the gold clasp holding Full Metal's aureate hair was digging painfully into Roy's thigh. Murmuring a soft apology, the officer slid a hand beneath the nape of Edward's neck, and wiggled the clip loose to lay it on the table of his chest. The unexpectedness of the gesture made him tense reflexively. Roy hadn't paused the smooth cadences of the poem, and as the former soldier's hand drifted away, the younger man relaxed imperceptibly. But he tightened up again in alarm when the long, elegant fingers threaded themselves into the gleaming yellow hair.

To be honest, Roy had memorized the poem – and most of the others in the book – ages ago. But holding the thin volume steady in one hand provided him with a ready-made screen. It let both of them, he and Ed, pretend that Roy wasn't stroking the silk-sleek hair, or allowing his fingers to wander, massaging gently behind one ear, or worrying at the old knots in young muscles. It gave them a way to pretend that nothing was happening.

The faint scent of machine oil, and the scorched ozone tang of electrical connections making and breaking complex circuits every time he twitched and trembled. God… masculine or feminine, Edward was _beautiful._ The potential that had been present in the child, had matured like the best wine, his features grown a little leaner and refined by time, just as the compact body had become unconsciously graceful.

The stereotypical thing, of course, would have been to compare Edward to a great pussy-cat, purring under the knowledgeable caress of a master's hand. So, equally of course, that was the last analogy to hold water; there was nothing kitty-ish about the temperamental blond. Fierce? Yes. Proud? Ditto. Prickly? Without a doubt. Likely to curse his former superior into next week if he got wind of the thoughts playing bump-and-grind in a certain head? Only if said former superior didn't end up_ dead _first.

Which was, sadly, a not unreasonable expectation.

Full Metal had never learned to play nice with others, even _before _he'd been granted his famous title by Amestior's Fuhrer. The odds was equally good that he'd punch Roy below the belt for the thoughts scurrying around in his brain, as transform the tired old couch into rack and use it to immobilize the officer. And, sadly, Roy had to admit that a part of him found the idea of being stretched out, helplessly at Ed's mercy to be an incredible turn-on.

And just where had that thought come from, anyway?

The words he read continued to fall in measured cadence from his lips while his mind did a busy turn on the hamster wheel trying to figure out how he'd gotten from being a Controlling Bastard to Tie Me Down, Mate.

Oh, Lord… He _was_ smitten. And bad.

A certain corporal had once claimed that Roy could make even the army's manual on field stripping a rifle sound sexy if he put his mind to it, and the former colonel had to admit that he was investing some serious effort. And it was beginning to look as if it was paying off; Edward's brilliant eyes had taken on a distinctly glazed look, and the soft lips were parted. But before Roy could congratulate himself, his warm lap-full rolled off the couch and onto his feet in one smooth, feline movement, and strode to the table. Distractedly, Ed muttered, "Furnace temperatures… Kircher's Equipment Catalog'll have 'em… I _know _I saw it here somewhere… Where did that damned book go?"

Nonplused, Roy blinked, years of playing poker army-style squashing his urge to whine, "Hey!" at the oblivious younger man. Who had apparently found the volume in question because he had flipped open a fat book, taken out a sheet of paper and his pen, and sat down.

The rapid _scritch_ of Full Metal's pen's nib was the only sound. Then, unable to contain it any longer, Roy began to laugh. It was that, or cry, because it was first time that he could remember having the object of a determined attempt to seduce dump him in favor of research.

_To be continued…_

**_

* * *

Author's Unashamed Notes:_**

_Yeah, yeah… Guilty of overdoing, as per normal. Here is the bibliography for the chapter above. And no, it is NOT as long as the admittedly much-delayed piece of fic. So there._

_As mentioned, there really is no such thing as the **Aura Aris: A Collection of Alchemical Poetry**. But the poetry itself is real. The bibliography is below._

_FYI… _**Fulminating silver**: Silver nitride, very explosive when dry. Made by dissolving silver oxide in ammonia.

_

* * *

_

"**THE ELEMENT" **

is from "Adam Before His Mirror" by Ned O'Gorman. Harcourt Brace & World, (1961).

**"Libre de Arte Chemica" by Marsilio Ficino.**

Item 7 from Ms. Sloane 3638. Transcribed by Justin von Budjoss.  
This text is a translation of a Latin text, Marsilius Ficinus, 'Liber de Arte Chemica', which was printed in the _Theatrum Chemicum_, Vol 2, Geneva, 1702, p172-183. It is not entirely certain if this text was actually written by Ficino, or was later ascribed to him: "An unknown concerning the Chymicall Art. But Lucerna Salis affirms him to be Marcilius Ficinus, an Italian of the Dukedom of Florence or Tuscany, in the year 1518."

_(Okay, I admit it. I bastardized his work a bit, although he does go on at great length about the superiority of the Alchemical product over the natural, and how the philosophers bring the luster of perfection to the imperfect.)_

**An Alchemical poem by Thomas Rawlin**

Transcribed from The British Library MS. Sloane 3643, at the end of 'A warning to the false Chymists or the Philosophical Alphabet by Thomas Rawlin' folios 14-55. This work was printed in Latin, Thomas Rawlin, _Admonitio de Pseudochymicis, seu Alphabetarium Philosophicum in quo refutatur aurum potabile Antonii, _1611.

http// www. levity. com / alchemy / rawlin. html

**Of the Division of Chaos, by Simon Forman.**

This alchemical poem by the physician, astrologer, magician and alchemist, Simon Forman (1552-1611) is in the Bodleian Library Oxford, MS Ashmole 240. I relied on Adam McLean's modernized spelling and adjusted punctuation.

http/ www. levity. com / alchemy / formanchaos. html

**Certain Verses of an Unknown Writer concerning the Great Work of the Tincture. **

This was included in the compendium by Benedictus Figulus,_ Pandora magnalium naturalium..._, Strassburg, 1608, which was translated by A.E. Waite in his edition _The Golden and Blessed Casket of Nature's Marvels..._, London, 1893.

**The Worck of Dickinson,** A 17th century allegorical alchemical poem by Edmund Dickinson, transcribed from MS Ferguson 91 in Glasgow University Library.

**Enchiridion Physicae Restitutae (aka 'The Hermetic Arcanum')** by Jean d'Espagnet, was a key work of 17th century alchemy. It was written in Latin and the first edition was issued at Paris in 1623. A number of editions were issued over the next decades and it was included in a number of alchemical compendia. An English translation, by Elias Ashmole, was printed in 1650, in Arthur Dee's_ 'Fasciculus chemicus: or chymical collections.' _

http/ www. levity. com / alchemy / harcanum. html

**Table of alchemical equipment and operations** by Athanasius Kircher 

This systematic table of alchemical operations and apparatus is found in _Athanasius Kircher, Mundus Subterraneus... _Amsterdam, 1665. Tomus II., page 260._ (For giggle-value, I've extrapolated it into a supply catalog…)_


	8. Chapter 8

**Rain: Part Eight**

_by L.A. Mason_

_**

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter has been done for a long time… has even been beta-ed for a couple of weeks now. If I had any clue why it hasn't gotten posted before now, perhaps I could think up a plausible excuse for it… cringes.**_

* * *

That had been _entirely_ too close of a call.

Hunched over his papers, Ed rapidly scribbled God-alone-knew-what, and resisted the temptation to beat his head on the table. The problem was, it had been… _nice_… snuggling up to the Colonel, and _there_ was a thought that he'd been sure he'd never have, no matter how long he lived. Nice… Colonel… God. At this rate, he was going to get himself committed before he hit twenty.

But there was no denying that Edward had enjoyed laying his head in somebody's lap, and letting that somebody pet him. It had brought a warm, tingly feeling bubbling up into the pit of his stomach, and no, thank you very much, it had _not_ been the comforting feeling of safety and love that he'd always gotten from his mom. Not even close. No, this was a damned-sight more hairy-chested and inclined to do something stupidly caveman-like… Up to and including the club over the head and drag the conquest off to the family cave kind of stupid. And regardless of what the pain-in-the-ass Mustang might say, the smaller alchemist didn't think that the man's interests quite extended to letting Ed do _that_…

_Then again, he did say to stop running away…maybe he'd enjoy a fur loincloth? _Ed resisted the temptation to fling the thick catalog in front of him across the room.

The poetry had been interesting, though. Had anyone asked him, Full Metal would have scoffed at the idea of alchemists writing sonnets, or what ever they were. But the rhythm and some of the images stuck with him none the less. As a seduction technique, it was down-right weird, but finding that he'd liked sharing the play of words almost as much as the snuggling was an eye-opener. Who'd have thought it? Not only was Roy good at reading out loud, but it had been enjoyable to listen. It almost, _almost_, made Ed wonder what else the older man knew how to do that he'd enjoy sampling.

But down that road lay damnation and defeat, and it wasn't as if this State Alchemist was ready to turn in his pride along with his watch. There was still time left before he had to make a decision about their contest, dammit, and Edward wasn't finished yet, not by a long shot. _This does **not** constitute 'running away' – just common sense. _Satisfied, he nodded firmly and slammed the equipment catalog shut. In the morning, he'd get the former Colonel to fill out a requisition for some items – his connections to the military ought still to be good enough for that – and then Ed would be able to bury himself and his damned, over-active imagination in some old-fashioned hard work. At the rate the house was falling apart, it was about time to tackle some needed repairs, and with his reluctance to waste alchemy on the trivial, this was the best way. And it would also do his host good to focus on the work of his hands, rather than the ills of his mind.

Calmed half-way, he crumpled up and tossed the useless page of calculations vaguely in the direction of the fireplace – even though it gave him fits when the ex-Colonel did the same thing – and got his brain back on track where it belonged.

Non-alchemists had known the art of smelting and casting metals for centuries, and there was no reason that someone with the intellect of an Elric couldn't master it, too. The cracked hinge on the oven door could have been fixed in an instant using regular alchemy, but Ed had developed a desire to see it done the _other_ way. He drew a fresh sheet toward him, sketching rapidly how he might use the remnants of the broken piece to create a mold in which to recast the part. It would require a little finesse to extrapolate for the missing fragments, but the two years he'd spent on the other side of the Gate had refined his mechanical skills… Edward's busy hands slowed, and stopped entirely as recollections of machining the gimbaled guidance system for a rocket came back to him. His first try had been crude – amateurish – but it had _worked._

The pride in seeing a creation of his physical hands, rather than of alchemy, function so flawlessly had stolen his breath away. Ed had been speechless with awe.

It would be… nice… (that damned word again) to share that feeling with Mustang. To see if that single black eye would light with the glow of wonder and accomplishment, the same as the younger man's had. Suddenly, intensely, he wanted to tell the Flame Alchemist about his experiences, wanted to show Roy how wonderful it was to pull it off without an array…

Bemused, Ed blinked. _Where the Hell did **that** come from?_ Absolutely not. There was no fu- his brain shied from the suggestive cuss word – _frea_king way he was going to explain that, not after having so narrowly dodged the bullet concerning what had happened in the sunken city, and subsequently, when he'd brought Al back and condemned himself to that other world. It had been only a combination of luck and the fact that a depressed Mustang was a Mustang whose nose for trouble was dulled, that had allowed Ed to avoid going into details about the last two years. If the Master Manipulator got wind of any of those events, he'd never manage to keep it under the rug. Forbidden alchemy was bad enough, but the revelation that there existed another universe in parallel with their own _and that it was possible to go there_ would lead to nothing but trouble. It had been risky enough skirting the truth by telling the former soldier that alchemy cost life force, that the 'equivalent trade' of which all the theorists were so certain in fact was ludicrously unequal. Ed had needed to go that far to justify his otherwise inexplicable refusal to use his gifts, but there was no way that he could tell _everything_. That much, at least, was his burden to carry alone.

Much though a part of him longed to again cross blades with the old Mustang - indolent, sarcastic, and unimaginably keen-witted – there was also a part of the steel alchemist that was relieved that loss and grief had dulled the man's instincts.

Dammit, he was letting the bastard's sly seduction distract him from what was really important; he needed to keep from getting executed for treason for his part in the last Fuhrer's demise, avoid getting tossed in jail for breaking every taboo in the book on human transformation, and still, somehow, get Al back. Counseling patience was one thing, but it was like being back under his command; the Colonel was so damned good at 'now you see it, now you don't' hocus-pocus that he ought to have been running a sidewalk shell game and ripping off the tourists.

Well, Ed hadn't worked for the army for years for nothing. If Roy were out to con him, he'd find out that the Full Metal alchemist could con right back with the best of them. If it took getting Mustang a seat in Parliament to divert attention from the Elrics, then that was what Edward would devote himself to accomplishing. There were no other reasons for his involvement.

Then why was he remembering the feel of soft, callus-free fingers stroking his hair? Defeated, Ed allowed his forehead to thump onto the unforgiving, hard table.

* * *

The words on the page might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made. Edward scowled, dark gold brows pulling together and rucking up the skin between them. His human hand was propping up one side of his jaw, and the fingers of the other hand made a hollow, ringing sound as he drummed them irritably on the parlor table's surface.

The issue wasn't that the book was boring – quite the contrary. He'd been waiting to snatch the new edition of the Alchemical Society Annual Proceedings, and had barely been able to restrain himself until the mailman was off the porch before dashing into the front hall. The problem was that no matter how fascinating the latest research trends were, he was distracted, plain and simple. His concentration was shot to Hell, and it was all that bastard Mustang's fault. Because the more the man smiled with genuine warmth, the more Ed got the feeling that lightning was about to strike out of the clear, blue sky.

And, worse still, some traitorous little part of the steel alchemist was looking forward to squaring off against the Colonel again.

No, _Roy_, dammit.

Throwing his hands up in mute surrender, the blond abandoned the parlor and stomped off to the kitchen. The couple of hours of sleep he'd managed to cadge on the tired old couch hadn't done him much good. He'd laid down resolved to not waver, intent on sticking to his plans, only to go right back to obsessing about Flame and their contest. So. When in doubt, the best thing to do was to eat… although getting a snack had its perils, too. There was a tin of cookies in one of the glass-fronted cabinets, a treat that his annoying host had pulled out of the last round of boxes from the grocer's like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat. Cookies by themselves weren't a big deal - they'd had packages before - but these were spicy ginger snaps with a thin layer of sour lemon icing, and how could the ex-army man possibly know that they were Ed's favorite kind?

It wasn't as if Al were around to rat his older brother out. Even if he _were_ in Central – which he wasn't - the junior of the Elrics no longer had a history of trust with the Colonel to make him want to spill his brother's secrets.

The rat-bastard Colonel no longer had any leverage.

But that weakness didn't stop the older man from confidently executing his campaign of slow subversion. Edward's stomach had succumbed and gone over to the enemy camp early on, upon discovering that kitchen wizardry was another of Mustang's areas of expertise. Say what he might, the older man was a genius at transmuting even the most unpalatable ingredients into something that made Ed's perpetually hungry middle sit up and take notice. Okay, maybe straight milk was still on the banned list, but even milk had snuck past the barricades a couple of times in the form of a creamed sauce. Add to that the favorable vote of Ed's scalp which even now, several hours after the fact, felt hot and tingly with pleasure from phantom fingers that combed through freed strands of gold.

And then there was a tightness that started at Ed's solar plexus, and rapidly spread to his entire chest, making his heart skip a beat whenever a certain, lone black eye slanted a teasing look his way.

Or the way a mellow baritone had said, mockingly, _We've been sharing a bed for weeks. When are you going to give in and call me by my given name? I was 'Roy' a lot longer than I was 'Colonel,' you know._ It didn't help that the taller alchemist had been carelessly blocking the escape route out of their bedroom. The sight of that lean, indolent figure slouched against the doorframe, white shirt hanging open, had robbed Ed's sharp tongue of its eloquence. Instead, he'd stared at the shadowed skin, until Roy pushed himself upright to take a step closer, and the long muscles had _flexed_, and…

Ed resisted the temptation to drown himself in the kitchen sink, biting down on a cookie as savagely as if he were ripping off Mustang's head. It was entirely unfair that what ought to be a catalog of the man's faults kept turning into subtle admiration.

Exasperated, he shoved thoughts of a thin, knowing smirk on an expressive mouth firmly out of his head, and dumped the last handful of cookies onto a clean plate. With luck, he had a good three to four hours of peace left, until his former superior got back from the day's expedition into the city's downtown shopping district, and Ed was planning to get through at least Poprich's essay on organic solvents before Roy demanded equal time with his book. A niggling idea that it might be worth digging up the author's rankings from the prior year's Certification Exams crossed his mind, and detoured his return route from the work table and his chair, to the shelves instead. Ed perched the plate on top of a box that held yellowing note cards, one hand absently reaching for a cookie while the other stretched upward toward a book on the highest shelf. If he were only a couple of inches taller…

A sharp rapping on the glass of the front door made him jump, and the dish crashed to the floor, shattering. Cookies scattered wildly across the carpet, bouncing together with shards of china, as the compact blond spun about.

_Shit…_ the parlor's sliding door was still standing wide open, and anyone with luck or persistence on their side would be able to see obliquely into the room.

To see Ed.

Unnerved, he froze. The dark silhouette clearly visible against the glass was wearing a uniform; after so many years, the young man was sure he would recognize the cut of the shoulders, and the high collar anywhere. There was no outline of a cap, but that might just mean that whoever it was had removed it in anticipation of entering the house… The apparition raised a fist and knocked again, rattling the glass in its frame with an insistence that said, _I heard a noise; I know you're in there…_ Ed cast a hunted look at the vast expanse of their work table, wondering if he could duck beneath it, and already knowing that it was futile. A sinking feeling in his gut confirmed it; he was _so_ screwed.

Well… He and the former Colonel had both known that it was only a matter of time before the Full Metal alchemist's cover would be blown. They'd hoped to reveal his presence on their own terms, when it could do the most good for their political aspirations, but it couldn't be helped. The good reputation that the Elrics had enjoyed as 'the People's Alchemists' was probably solid enough to weather attempts to discredit them that revolved around their disappearance, anyway. The worst charge that the opposition would dare to make publicly was dereliction of duty, and all Ed would have to do was to point to the fact that his watch had been left behind years ago.

The real danger lay in what the other side would try to do covertly.

But still… busted, was busted. The military silhouette pounded insistently on the door, and a voice demanded, "I know you're home. Open the door." Ed took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

The short walk to the front door had to be one of the longest in his life, almost as long as the first time he'd walked on an automail limb up the hill from Auntie Pinako's to his mother's grave, to say good bye. That journey had led him far from Rizenpool, all the way to Central, and a National Alchemist's watch. But the longer Ed tarried, the louder the shouting would get, and it would do them no good to get the neighbors riled up, too. His metal hand grasped the knob, and he yanked the door open.

"F- Fury…?" Ed stammered, blinking. Wide, nervous eyes behind thick-lensed glasses blinked back, but no sound came out of the gaping mouth.

The rumble of a car approaching from down the quiet street finally broke Ed free of his paralysis, and he grabbed the warrant officer's sleeve to roughly jerk him into the safety of the house.

"Oh, my God…" Fury said weakly, "It really _is_ you."

"Who else would- " The querulous complaint was smothered when the black haired officer folded Edward into a surprisingly hard hug. After a shocked pause, a tension he hadn't been aware of bled out of the steel alchemist, and he returned the embrace.

The last time they'd been in the same place had been just before Roy's desperate gamble. Back then, Fury hadn't known that he would be impersonating Riza Hawkeye, any more than Jean Havoc could have guessed that he would be going North in their commander's place. None of them had known that it would be the last time that they would all be together. Ed's arms tightened around the small man as a suspicious burning in his eyes made him sniffle. Fury squeezed him back, then held him at arms' length, blurting, "I can't believe it; you're finally taller than I am!"

"Hey! Who're you calling short!" the blond mock-growled, drawing one fist back in preparation for a punch. Delighted, the army man laughed.

"Me, I guess!" But the humor faded, and his dark eyes roamed searchingly over Edward's face, taking in the changes that two years had wrought in the boy that he'd alternately treated with awe, and affection. Softly, Fury whispered, "When did you get back?"

"Almost two and a half months ago. I showed up here, and damned near broke the bastard's neck when he kept acting like I was a ghost." A flicker of distress and guilt in the shorter man's expression stopped his explanation, and he stared thoughtfully. Fury had never been any good at hiding what was going on under his mop of black hair, and now was no exception. Ed accused him, "You're feeling bad about walking out on him, in the officer's mess, aren't you?"

"Eh… yeah. I guess." Even with the heavy blue uniform to add bulk, the comm officer's narrow shoulders hunched in as he tried to shrink down and turn invisible. Miserable, Fury looked anywhere but at the younger alchemist. "I didn't mean to, it's just that I got so mad at him, for surviving when Jean didn't. I know it was Jean's choice to go, that the Colonel didn't force him, but I _hated_ h-" Emotion choked the tentative voice as a small hand shoved Fury's glasses up his forehead, and scrubbed at reddening eyes. "I wish I hadn't been the one to come back."

Slowly, Ed nodded. This was something he understood: the guilt of being the one left behind, alive, when others were gone. He cleared his throat. "Well… there's no point in standing around in the hall like this. How about some coffee? I broke the plate with the cookies, but there's some fresh bread and jam in the pantry."

"Um, sure. If it's okay that I'm here while the Colonel is away?" The shorter officer trailed behind as the blond led the way to the kitchen. Absently, Ed reflected that at least he wasn't the only one who seemed to be having trouble remembering Roy's forced retirement; Fury had also called him by his old rank.

"Sure it is." Pouring two cups of coffee, Ed shot him a covert glance, and added, "I'm living here, too."

The effect the words had was interesting, to say the least. Already magnified by the strong lenses, the dark eyes widened comically as a painful blush crept up from under the military perfection of his tight collar. But it was the squeak of "You do?" that made the alchemist turn to fully face the officer, folding his arms aggressively across his chest.

"I do." Ed repeated firmly. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes! I- I mean n- no!" Sputtering, Fury's blush reached the rims of his ears and the petit man waved his hands frantically. "It's just that I never expected you and Colonel Mustang to last two and a half months in the same _city_, let alone the same _house_. I mean, Central is still standing. I'd have bet a month's pay that there'd be nothing but smoking ruins by now."

Annoyed, the younger man said stiffly, "He's not _that_ bad to get along with. Actually…" An unbidden memory of holding a shaking Roy through the course of a nightmare popped into his head, and Ed's blush abruptly rivaled that of the communications expert. He glanced up to find Fury staring speculatively, and snapped, "What?"

"You mentioned bread and jam; in the pantry, right?" squeaked the hastily retreating blue-coat. Ed growled threateningly, but in the end, let it go.

For one thing, he really _was_ happy to see Fury again. Timid and too gentle for the military, the diminutive warrant officer had always tended to provoke Edward to an exasperated desire to protect, even when it was _Ed_ who was the short, smart-mouthed kid that Mustang's staff was looking out for. It had been kind of funny, back then. What had done it were the little things, like discovering that Caine Fury didn't like loud noises, and had to be coaxed into putting in time at the firing range – often by Lieutenant Hawkeye, who took that sort of thing very seriously. But unlike her methods when dealing with the rest of the men that had made up the Colonel's core group, she'd never used her pistol as persuasion when it came to the comm specialist.

And the Elrics had picked up on that, too.

Instinct said that Fury was still a friend, just as instinct also indicated that there was more going on than met the eye. When the uniformed figure turned about to return to the kitchen, the way was blocked by Edward's steel arm. "So, now that you've gotten over the shock of having me back, and me living in the Colonel's house, how about you tell me why _you're_ here?"

Surprisingly, at that question the young army man paled and fiddled uncomfortably with the jam jar, before setting it back onto the pantry shelf. His voice was subdued as he said, "After… uh… you know… running into the Colonel, I phoned the Lieutenant—'Miss' Hawkeye, now. I didn't know what else to do. She told me to come check up on him. But I never expected to find out that you'd come back, Ed. Honest!" Fury's head jerked up, and there was fearful concern written across his round cheeks and sincere eyes. "What I can't believe is that you survived."

"Oh." Awkward in turn, the younger blond fidgeted. Well… It wasn't as if the admission was unexpected, after all. He'd gotten the impression from Roy that after Al had been restored to his true body and sent away to safety with their old teacher, that it had been assumed by those in the know that the Full Metal alchemist had perished in the process. At least that was the explanation for why Roy had acted as if he'd seen a ghost the first night. But the comm officer wasn't among those who'd been privy to all the secrets; it had been safer for all if he were able to plead ignorance with a clear conscience. According to the ex-Colonel, the _public _rumors going around had vacillated between the Elrics together deciding to quit the military as the wars wound down, and one that said that the price for Al's freedom had been his brother going deep under cover on some suicide mission that he never returned from.

"When you didn't come back, we chalked you up as another casualty of Mustang's War." the little officer said apologetically.

_Mustang's War?_

Was that really how the man's faithful followers had seen it? That it was a war being fought for and by the charismatic officer, not that it was part and parcel of the fight to keep a corrupt government from destroying everything of importance? No wonder then that Fury had turned his back and walked off. Edward realized that he'd been thinking out loud when the bluecoat shuffled his feet, and mumbled, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put it like that."

Not simply 'I didn't mean it.' In his eyes, the sentiment was true, even if Fury regretted the phrasing. Helplessly, Edward said, "Roy's not like that. Nobody was supposed to-" But he couldn't complete the lie, couldn't tell a friend with pain in his eyes that no one was supposed to have died, not when they both knew that it _had_ been a covert war, and that in wars, there were casualties.

"It's okay…" The specialist gave him a watery smile, laying a hand on Ed's shoulder. He and the alchemist were so nearly of a height now that it was kind of odd to have their roles reversed.

No more kindly Fury looking out for the kid; it was time for Ed to _do_ something about the mess, himself. And, more over, to keep Fury's distress from causing one or the other of them to say something stupid. Ed shied instinctively from contemplating those who'd died, and the pain that would come with seeing Havoc, Armstrong, and the others in his mind. Far better to think about other things.

Resolutely, he shoved the dangerous thoughts away, reacting as he was supposed to, letting his annoyance at Mustang keep the rest at bay.

"That rat bastard!" Fuming, the steel alchemist forced himself to count to ten before he burst out, "Even when I'm dead, he's hogging all the credit!" More irritated than ever, the younger man drummed his fingers against his opposite elbow, and considered. Presumably, all this was part and parcel of why his former superior had shut himself up in his prison of a retirement cottage… If he was supposed to have fought a folly – and killed off his friends and supporters in the process – it would go a long way toward explaining his suicidal depressions… And it didn't bode particularly well for their chances in the political arena, either. If people saw Roy Mustang as a Jonas, then they would have a hard time getting together the ground-swell of popularity that was the key to _winning_, since place or show wasn't worth a damn in this particular horse race... Edward realized that he was staring fixedly at the increasingly anxious, round, bespectacled face of the answer to his problems. His re-emerging grin was disturbingly shark-like as he purred, "Fury, I've got a job for you…"

* * *

Frankly, the hardest part of all this lay in containing his glee until his worried co-conspirator could report back. The knowledge that it could take literally _days_ to track down and sound out the remaining survivors of Mustang's command was doing terrible things to Ed's supply of patience. Oh, it wasn't that he couldn't do patient – he'd persevered for years, seeking a way to restore Al and himself – but he'd be damned if he _liked_ it. Dinner had been slammed onto the table to the accompaniment of the Colonel's delicately raised eyebrows, and the shorter man had positively growled when his old commander dared to ask if he was having a bad day.

And he couldn't even fess up and admit that he'd had a visit from Warrant Officer Fury.

Ed hunkered defensively down in his chair, and glowered at the inoffensive coffee pot as if the caffeinated brew were a part of his problems. Maybe it was? The good Lord knew that he couldn't make it turn out even half as well as the Bastard's did. When _he_ made it, it tasted about as appealing as grade-A motor oil, and wasn't that a treat? Harsh and bitter with a rainbow sheen on the surface while it managed to take the paint off the roses that adorned the old china— The blond alchemist snarled over a vicious bite of pasta, and contemplated murder. Or suicide. Suicide was a good possibility, too.

Because it was killing him to admit it; for the first time since his return on a rainy night, it wasn't just him and Roy any more. Someone else had been to the house, someone who probably knew the ex-military man miles better than a washed-out alchemist who was afraid to use his only real gift in the world. Soon, there'd be others: Hawkeye, Sciezka—Okay, maybe Falman couldn't come, being as he was watching over Al, but that didn't change the fact that pretty soon, Roy wouldn't need Edward at all. His chest squeezed painfully tight.

_Not at all._

_

* * *

To be continued…_


End file.
